


Ornamental Joy

by starrysummernights



Series: As the Summer Rains Fall [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Greg Lestrade, Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Best Friends, But between two adults, Explicit Sexual Content, Fights, Heavy Angst, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Underage Sex, Omega Mycroft, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Sex, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 87,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13315581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: You are cordially invited to the betrothal ceremony between the Omega Crown Prince Sherlock Holmes and his future husband, the Alpha Prince John Watson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The multi-chaptered Omegaverse fic in which we are introduced to John Watson and discover how he and Sherlock get along.  
> Mycroft is 19, Sherlock is 11, John is 15, and Greg is in his late twenties.  
> There will be NO underage sex taking place in this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been told that the correct form of address for Mycroft would be "Your Highness" and that "Your Majesty" would be reserved for the Queen and King.
> 
> Also: since Sherlock is the one who will inherit the throne, he is the Crown Prince and Mycroft is merely the Prince.
> 
> Thanks for skybluedays for letting me know :D

It was almost dawn, the first rays of sun barely peeking over the horizon, when Greg Lestrade stumbled his way back to his room in the palace barracks. As he limped down the spartan stone hallways, everything was quiet. The peaceful hush of sleep as thick as a blanket wrapping around him. The night watch hadn’t given way to the day yet, the first bell hadn’t rang, and so everyone was still asleep and no one was there to see their illustrious Captain of the Prince’s Guard limping his way back to his room.

Greg was thankful for small miracles.

He was tired and sore and could think of nothing better than a hot bath, scrubbing himself all over- scrubbing hard- with lots of soap, until the past few days of accumulated dirt and sweat and fluids sloughed off his skin. Gods. That sounded like heaven. Then, he would eat.

No. Rest first. Bed. Sleep. As much as he could get of it before he was summoned by the Prince.

Then food.

He moaned at the idea as he used his shoulder to open the wooden door at the end of the barracks which led to the hall where the officers were lodged. Being Captain had a few perks, one of which meant Greg got his own room and didn’t have to bunk in the communal hall with the rest of the soldiers. It smelled nicer in this hall, the officers more inclined to bathe than the regular foot soldiers, and while the stones were just as bare as the rest of the barracks, it was better lit with flaming sconces evenly spaced along the walls. And quiet. So blessedly quiet. When Greg needed it, when he had to concentrate on important plans, or when the Prince had driven him to the brink of insanity for the hundredth time that day, he could get all the undisturbed peace he wanted. He could close the heavy door to his room, lock it, and shut the world away. For a while at least. And when he was in his room it was just himself, and so he wasn’t prone to hear drunken laughter, burps, sexual groans, and flatulence in the middle of the night like he had when he’d bunked with the other soldiers for a time.

Well. At least his job had _one_ perk, Greg thought wryly as he made his way down the hall, wincing with every step as his overworked muscles pulled, new hurts making themselves known. Gods knew there weren’t any other perks to this hell of a thankless job.

Greg disliked the direction of his thoughts. It was a refrain he’d found himself thinking more and more lately, but he was fucking exhausted and couldn’t stop himself. He was bitter and angry and miserable. And so so so damned guilty.

Well. He didn’t give a shit.

He could think whatever the hell he wanted, Greg decided defiantly. The Prince of Northumbria may dictate Greg's every move during the day, but he couldn’t command what Greg did or did not think. Yet. Not that Greg wouldn’t put it past him to try. The Prince could accomplish anything he set his incredibly brilliant mind to, but until he actually managed to figure out a way to control Greg’s thoughts, he was safe in his own head. Greg would think as he pleased. And what he wanted to think at that moment was that he hated the sodding Prince of sodding Northumbria. With every fibre of his being.

Prince Mycroft Holmes.

Greg hated _everything_ about him. He hated how Prince Mycroft’s green eyes stared straight through him, as if Greg weren’t there. Of course, that was when the Prince bothered to even look at Greg. Most of the time, he didn’t glance in Greg's direction, ignoring him, or pretending that Greg didn’t exist while he gave Greg his orders for the day, staring at the papers on his desk or into the middle distance. But never at Greg. On the rare occasion the Prince did look at him, his face gave nothing away to hint at how he was feeling. He regarded Greg with expressionless attention which felt as distant as the moon.

Greg hated him.

He hated the way Prince Mycroft spoke, soft and calm. He never shouted. He never raised his voice. In fact, the quieter the Prince's voice dipped, the angrier he was, and the more dangerous he became. It was unnerving as hell. Greg didn’t know how to react to a man who didn’t shout or voice his anger, but remained serene at all times. And while he was on the subject-

Greg hated the sound of Prince Mycroft’s voice too. It was cool and detached, just like the rest of him, but deep. Undeniably masculine. The childish high pitch he’d spoken with the last few years finally giving way to a man’s voice, deep with maturation. It sent chills down Greg’s spine when he heard it unexpectedly- down a hallway, passing by a room, speaking with Crown Prince Sherlock, calling to someone before Greg entered his presence.

He hated that.

He hated the way the Prince walked, determinedly striding ahead of Greg with his commanding presence and his raised chin, ignoring everyone around him. Including Greg. The Prince had never walked like that before, but ever since he’d grown more than a foot, shooting up overnight it seemed, until he was almost as tall as Greg himself, he carried himself differently. Head held high. Shoulders back. Spine straight. Posture rigid. Confident, the way a Prince should walk, and drawing Greg’s attention to the fact that his clothes, always expertly tailored, were now cut close to his body. Very close. They were made of expensive silks held together by intricate laces which emphasized his height and the new slenderness of his figure.

Greg hated him. He _loathed_ him.

And there was no denying that the Prince was smart. Damn smart. His parents, the Alpha Queen and her Omega Consort, deferred to him on most matters and it was clear to everyone that they were grooming him to play a large part in his little brother’s future kingship. Intelligent and brilliant, Prince Mycroft was able to see through a problem, sometimes immediately, and determine the best solution. Greg knew he had done that to his own life. From the time he was a child, the Prince had planned out his future in a neat path which allowed for no deviation, no personal attachments, no allowance to just fucking exist as himself. To be happy. Happiness wasn’t a part of his plan, had never been considered actually, and so the Prince didn’t allow himself any.

Greg hated him. He hated him.

Gods, he fucking _hated_ him.

Greg paused halfway down the hall as his emotions overcame him, anger flaring hot enough to burn beneath his breastbone. At least, he thought it was anger. At the moment, it was tinged with so much guilt that Greg couldn’t tell the difference.

But stopping had been a mistake because as soon as Greg did, the scent of the Omega he’d been with the past few days swirled around him in offensive drafts. Tellingly vulgar, it let the entire world know, with one sniff, just what Greg had been up to. The unmistakable smell of heat and rut clung to his clothes and hair and after rolling in it without taking the time to bathe for three days, Greg felt like the smell was oozing from his pores. His entire body felt sticky with fluids, both his and the Omega's, and it left him soiled. Gross. Contaminated. And he wished he’d never taken the young male Omega up on his offer.

Gods, he wished he hadn’t.

But he had. Greg had glutted himself in soft, willing flesh, the Omega urging him on with an incredibly filthy mouth and grasping fingers, arching beneath him, legs wrapped around Greg’s waist and begging for his knot. Greg had given it to him, over and over, pumping into the needy body as hard as he could and kissing the Omega filthily, caging the smaller body under him with his arms. Greg’s cock was actually sore from how many times he’d knotted the Omega. His muscles ached too, from his back and groin, to the muscles in his arms and legs, in a way which unmistakably reminded him of rough fucking.

Greg thought of his bath again. Hot water and soap. A lot of soap. He felt so godsdamned dirty.

He had enjoyed himself with the Omega, though. Immensely.

 _He had_ , Greg thought defiantly, thrusting out his chin and continuing down the hall, his eyes fixed on the door to his room at the end, willing himself to walk faster. He had enjoyed himself. _A lot_. He didn’t feel guilty.

There was absolutely nothing for Greg to feel guilty about. He wasn’t bonded to anyone. He owed no promises to another Omega. There was no one waiting for Greg who he had betrayed. He was free. Unattached. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.

So what if Greg had taken up the Omega’s propostion of sharing his heat with him? What did it matter if Greg had left on leave, with permission of the Prince, and met the Omega at an inn in the city? No one cared if Greg fucked the Omega, knotted him, or slept with him. There was not a single person who would mind that Greg had bit and sucked at the Omega, taking what was offered and sometimes closing his eyes so he could imagine someone else. Besides, they’d made no promises to each other, the Omega only needing someone to help them through their heat, cheekily thanking Greg at the end of it with a wink. Greg had nodded, leaving the inn with the heavy feeling weighing him down which he hadn’t known what was.

He did now. It was guilt. Shame.

Which was ridiculous.

There was no reason for him to feel guilty. There wasn’t.

Greg hated the Prince.

_He hated him._

He sighed wearily, turning the latch of his door and dragging his feet over the threshold, glad to finally be home. Light and warmth immediately enveloped his tired body, feeling so damn wonderful… Greg jerked his head up. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, crackling over a neat stack of logs, and candles were lit in the sconces. No one would have warmed his room for him. Greg had no servants. He always did that himself, no matter how tired he was. Who could have done-?

Greg stopped dead. Oh gods, no. Please no.

Prince Mycroft turned from where he had been inspecting one of the numerous maps hung around Greg’s room. Some were of Marseille. Past routes along which Captain Lestrade had escorted the Prince. Many of them were new, though, and traced the route of the upcoming Royal Tour, outlined in red with different markers indicating troop placements, forts, outliers, designated inns, safe areas, treacherous roads, locations of interest and how to best protect his charges while they were there... Prince Mycroft already knew the details displayed on the maps. He had personally been the one to create all of them, with Greg.

The Prince surveyed Greg from across the room, pretty green eyes flicking up and down, taking in Greg’s disheveled appearance. From his hair which was sticking up from being pulled at as he fucked the Omega, his rumpled clothing that had lain on the floor for 3 days, weary muscles, and stubble across his cheeks that was days old, it didn’t look good. Greg knew the exact moment the Prince Mycroft smelled him. His nostrils faintly twitched, eyes widening. A flicker of emotion rippled across his face, so quick it was impossible for Greg to catch, then his entire face went blank. Like snuffing out the light of a candle. Every emotion was suddenly wiped clean, leaving only an empty visage behind. Prince Mycroft stared steadily at Greg with calm eyes, remote and untouchable. Staring straight through Greg like he always did.

The change happened so fast Greg actually winced, unsettled no matter how many times he saw it happen. Out of everything, it was what he hated most about the Prince.

Greg had never thought he would, but he _missed_ the younger version of Prince Mycroft. The boy who had let everyone know what he was thinking with a myriad of eloquent looks, formidable in their execution, and reducing those whom were aimed at to mere dust beneath his feet. He _missed_ the Mycroft who had shown all his emotions through his eyes- his gorgeous green eyes with their long, oddly colored lashes- which had usually been narrowed in irritation. Irritation which was almost always directed at Greg for something stupid he had done, standing at attention with his hands behind his back while Mycroft berated him. He’d rolled his eyes at Greg’s foolishness. Smirked when he was being an arse. Eyes shooting fiery sparks when he was angry. Frozen a grown man to the bone for a possible vague insult. Prince Mycroft had been temperamental. Poignant. Easy to read. Once or twice, he had even laughed at something Greg did.

That was all gone and Greg missed it so fucking much.

In the last year, Prince Mycroft had changed. Besides the alterations to his voice and his looks, he had also inexplicably adopted the unfeeling expression which was currently directed at Greg. Prince Mycroft Holmes no longer needed elaborate facial expressions to let others know when they were beneath him, not worth his time, and being stupid.

Greg knew that he was all three.

He closed the door and stared at Mycroft, at the beautiful, cold, ice Prince he was lucky enough to serve, and knew with resigned acceptance that he didn’t hate him. Not even close. Greg couldn’t hate him if he tried. Which he knew, because he had tried.

Greg was fucking in love with him.

Desperately, hopelessly, pathetically in love with Prince Mycroft...and that was what Greg hated.

“Your Highness.” He recovered from his surprise and fell into the proper bow, forcing his muscles to comply even when they shook from the strain. When he rose, Mycroft was looking away, bored at his display of deference.

“I’ve been requesting your presence for the past hour, Captain.” He said mildly, hands behind his back and posture the straightest Greg had ever seen it.

“Yes, Your Highness. I apologize. I was given the week off.”

Prince Mycroft didn’t need reminding of that. He had been the one to give Greg the leave, after all, a reward for working Greg so hard the last few months. Almost twenty-four hours a day in the lead up to the betrothal ceremony for the Crown Prince. They had been ensconced together, day in and day out, planning the ceremony and guard locations and the number of soldiers Prince John was allowed to have and where they would be placed and where they would be housed. Tedious. Then, ironing out all the myriad details of the royal tour which would depart a week after the betrothal ceremony. It was a lot of work. Greg had been knackered. Mycroft must have noticed- because he noticed everything- and had offered Greg the week off so he would be rested for the ceremony. He’d leapt at the chance.

“Of course you did.” Mycroft replied. “And I can see you’ve used that time very advantageously.”

There was no inflection in his tone, either of disappointment or anger, to give Greg an indication of how the Prince felt about Greg and his activities. There was...nothing. But Greg was Captain of the Prince’s Guard and he was no fool. He could feel the ground shifting dangerously beneath his feet even while Mycroft remained calm. When unsure of how to respond, the best course of action was to be respectful.

“Sir?”

“It is now five in the morning, Captain. I assumed you would be back in the barracks and ready to resume your duties this morning.” Mycroft’s eyes did a quick up and down glance again. Greg suppressed the instinct to try and hide. He was horribly aware of how dirty his clothes were, and how potent the scent that clung to them was. “Clearly, there were more pressing matters to attend to than your responsibilities.”

Greg licked his lips, thinking of how best to respond without angering Mycroft further. Because he knew Mycroft was angry. If he really had been asking for Greg the past hour, he would already be annoyed, and then to actually bring himself to Greg’s room (which he’d never done before) to find Greg literally dragging himself back to the palace, exhausted after a marathon of fucking… Greg knew he would be furious.

While Greg scrambled for the right thing to say, Mycroft waited, regarding him impersonally. The longer Greg let the silence spiral horribly, the more amused Mycroft seemed to become. One ginger eyebrow raised, the smallest of smirks playing at the corners of his lips.

It was not a friendly look. Greg knew he was being mocked.

Gods. Even when he was being a prick to him, the Prince was beautiful.

Mycroft had certainly matured in the last year and try as he might, Greg was painfully aware of it. Constantly. Besides shooting up a whole foot, Mycroft had finally lost the stubborn baby fat which had plagued him as a teen. His body turned lissome. Willowy and lean and emphasized by the tight cut of his fashionable clothes, drawing the eyes to his long legs, encased in their boots. More than once, Greg caught himself thinking of those legs wrapped around his waist again, imagined what those legs looked like nude, pale and long and gorgeous. Which was a mortifying thought. He was a grown man for god's sakes, fantasizing about what an Omega’s legs looked like as if he were some repressed virgin.

The worst part of this new Prince Mycroft- at least to Greg- was above his thin face, past his cheekbones which were sharp enough to cut, and over his pretty ginger eyebrows. As Mycroft’s mocking smile widened, Greg’s eyes helplessly wandered up to Mycroft’s hair. Gone were Mycroft’s tight red curls which had spiraled out from his head, giving him the unfortunate look of a startled sheep. He had been Greg’s startled sheep, though, Greg thought fondly. Now, Mycroft’s hair was cropped close, giving no hint that the shiny red hair would ever curl. It was short, silky, and combed artfully. It suited him. The new him, anyway. It gave him a look of someone older and wiser. Someone who commanded respect and was to be feared. The Ice Prince of Northumbria.

“I apologize for inconveniencing you, Your Highness-” Greg began, but Mycroft snorted.

“I’m sure you are.”

It was the first true emotion Greg had seen from him in months and he was glad of it, even if it was sarcasm. But the Prince didn’t follow up with another cutting remark, instead turning away from Greg, withdrawing, and walking to the fireplace, hands still clasped behind his back. Greg watched him shrewdly, eyes narrowing.

There was something wrong.

He didn’t know what, but it was evident in the way the Prince held himself, the way he walked. He was stiff, walking slowly and placing his feet in small, almost exaggeratedly careful steps. He looked brittle, as if the slightest movement done too fast would break him. The sense of wrongness crept up Greg’s spine, a sixth sense he had developed, a reaction in the presence of something awry.

“Your Highness?”

“Yes, Captain?”

Are you alright? How would the Prince react to that asinine question? Greg didn’t want to find out.

“Is anything...amiss?” He asked carefully, and Mycroft turned to him, one eyebrow raised imperiously.

“Whatever would be amiss, Captain?” The sarcasm was heavy enough to crush Greg, designed to trample over him. “I have only been waiting for hours to speak with you, my Captain of the Guard, over important matters which clearly mean nothing to you because I come here to find you missing. Then- _What are you doing_?”

Mycroft stepped away from Greg, and Greg stopped, his fingers outstretched, inches from Mycroft’s face. He had crossed the room before being aware of it, the dark mark high on Mycroft’s cheek drawing his complete attention.

“What is this?” He slowly moved forward again and this time Mycroft didn’t move, letting Greg gently run his fingers over Mycroft’s smooth cheek, feeling the heat of the bruise. Mycroft held very still while he touched him, not even breathing, his eyes cast down. He passively let Greg tip his head to the side so the firelight fell brighter on the injury and he could see it more clearly. It looked monstrous, marring Mycroft’s pale face. Greg hadn’t seen it before because of the shadows, but up close he could see the purple and red bruise, spreading over the top half of Mycroft’s cheek-

Mycroft stepped away. “Do not touch me while you reek of another Omega’s heat.”

Greg let him go, rage burning through him. Was this why Mycroft had called for him? Had he needed Greg’s protection and Greg had been gone, selfishly fucking an Omega when his Prince needed him? The way Mycroft carried himself now made sense. If someone had attacked him, the bruise on his face was just the most obvious indication. What other injuries was he hiding beneath his clothes that were causing him pain? The guilt Greg felt doubled, the tripled, in intensity, taking his breath away.

“Who hit you?”

No one had ever hit Mycroft. Greg knew they hadn’t, because if they had, he would have killed them. He was sworn to protect Prince Mycroft and no one harmed a hair on his head while he was around.

Ah, but he hadn’t been around when someone hit Mycroft. Had he? The idea that someone had dared to lay a finger on Mycroft while Greg wasn’t there filled him with anger.

“No one hit me. It is nothing.”

They both knew Mycroft was lying. The proof was splashed across his cheek for all to see. Why would he protect someone who had hurt him?

“Someone hit you, and I will have their name-”

“You will have nothing.” Mycroft snapped. He traced over Greg’s appearance again, and something slid through Mycroft’s eyes that was lightning quick. There and gone. “My personal life is of no concern to you, Captain. I would suggest you remember that. Report to me in the study in the east wing within the hour.”

Greg clenched his jaw, impotent anger warring with his innate sense of duty. He knew which would win.

“I will serve at your pleasure, Your Highness.” Greg said rotely, falling into the standard position: a Guard in front of his Prince.

“Do not rush your bath, Captain.” Mycroft said coldly. “Use hot water and plenty of soap. Wash very thoroughly. If you enter my presence with the stench of Omega heat still on you, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

The threat was said so nonchalantly that it took Greg a full second to realize he actually _had_ been threatened- but by then Mycroft was striding to the door, expecting Greg to get out of his way so he could leave. Which normally Greg would have done. It was the respectful way for the Captain of the Guard to act towards his Prince and a deference which Greg always did, anticipating Mycroft’s moves and immediately rearranging himself to accommodate them.

Except…

This was the first time in more than a year that Greg had Mycroft alone. Totally alone. There was no one else near, no one arriving with messages, no one waiting outside the door. There were no servants, no soldiers, and no threat of someone interrupting them. Their privacy was protected by a heavy door and Greg didn’t want to squander this opportunity.

Ever since he had reluctantly helped Mycroft through his heat last year, Greg had wanted to speak with him. Greg thought it was necessary to discuss how they had been intimate, especially considering Mycroft’s delicate state, of both mind and body (Greg knew Mycroft had been extremely inexperienced at the time). And Greg wanted to apologize for how he had behaved towards his Prince.

He had waited for an opportunity. And waited. And waited. And waited. None came. Everything happened so fast after the Queen discovered them, events so hectic and muddled and leaving Greg scrambling to keep up. First, he’d been arrested, certain he would be executed for stealing the Prince’s virginity on an unwashed mattress in a room above a bar. Then, he’d been released, removed as Captain of the Guard, and brought before the Queen. She offered Greg money, land, power- anything he wanted if he would remain quiet about Prince Mycroft’s status as an Omega and what had happened. Greg refused them all, maintaining that he would keep the Prince’s secret because of the vows he had sworn to him, and because of his honor. Scoffing, the Queen sent him out again and Greg was held in confinement while the Queen decided his fate. The rumors whispered through his door that Prince Mycroft was now fighting with his mother in favor of Greg had been a shock. More of a shock was that the Prince won their battle of wills.

Greg was released, reinstated as Captain, and life continued on. He had thought he could speak to Mycroft then, that the Prince would request Greg's presence and they would talk about what transpired between them. He would be allowed to apologize for his egregious behavior...but the Prince kept a strictly enforced distance from him which was never relaxed in the slightest.

It had been a year, and Greg hadn’t been able to speak to him intimately once.

But this morning, Mycroft had came to Greg’s room, invaded his private space (which as Prince he had every right to do). This was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Mycroft was close and in a reckless move, Greg tried to stop him, a gentle hand on his arm-

Mycroft recoiled, pressing himself against the wall, as far away from Greg as possible.

“Don’t touch me!” He hissed, and the look he gave Greg was of pure venom, eyes sparking with outrage and face twisted in anger. It was the most emotion Greg had seen from Mycroft in almost a year- the most emotion he’d seen since Mycroft had been beneath him, legs around his waist, face lost in pleasure as Greg knotted him.

Gut clenching with alarm, Greg quickly backed up, putting a safe distance between them. He held his hands out to his sides, palms up, so Mycroft wouldn’t be scared. “I’m so sorry, Mycroft-”

“Your Highness-” Mycroft snapped and Greg hurriedly corrected himself.

“Your Highness! I didn’t mean to scare you-”

“Nothing you do can scare me.” Mycroft said, but he was visibly struggling to regain control, his hands shaking. Greg’s heart twisted at the sight. He hadn’t meant to scare the Prince. It was the absolute last thing he’d wanted to do.

“I simply don’t want your filthy hands on me. You _reek_ , Captain.” Mycroft's voice dropped to a whisper which was as icy as the northern wind. “I could smell you from across the room and I would prefer that my body not to be tainted by the scent of your disgusting rut again.”

Words were weapons, and Mycroft wielded them with deadly precision. It had been a while since the full weight of Mycroft’s potent fury had been turned on him, and Greg had forgotten how much it stung. Equal parts of anger and shame flashed over him, hot and cold and uncomfortable, tying his tongue, just as Mycroft wanted.

“I- I understand, Your Highness. I’m- I’m sorry for- for...upsetting you, but...We never...that is I never talked about what happened between us last year-”

“There is a reason for that, or was your _incredibly_ ignorant mind unable to comprehend that?”

“Mycroft- Your Highness. Please.” Greg talked as fast as he could, Mycroft’s eyes narrowing more with every word. “I wanted to speak with you when we arrived back at the palace, but it was never the right time. Or you were busy. Or I was off somewhere. Or we were traveling-”

“I do remember what has happened in my life the past 12 months, Captain. That was all done on purpose.”

“I know. I know it was, and that was exactly the reason I’ve wanted to speak with you. I’ve been so worried that...that I may have distressed you during your heat. When I look back on what I did, I realize that I was too rough and-”

“Do not speak to me of my h-” Mycroft cut himself off, his face going white. “Do not speak to me of _what occurred between us_ as if you care while you stink of another Omega’s heat.”

“I know what this looks like and it looks terrible.” Greg held his hands out further, wishing Mycroft weren’t veritably cowering against the wall, but his reaction confirmed some of Greg’s fears. He had to say this. He had to apologize. “But I do care, Your Highness. I care about what happened between us. Immensely.”

Mycroft’s face went absolutely blank again. Greg didn’t take that as a good sign.

“Your Highness. When we arrived at that inn, you were scared and upset, obviously because of the risk of being discovered, but also because you had never experienced something like that before with an Alpha. It was perfectly reasonable for you to have fears, and I should have comforted you more than I did. I was too rough with you. I know I was. I should have been more aware of your inexperience and compensated for that when I...when I took you.”

Gods. Mycroft blushed. He actually fucking blushed at Greg’s insinuation, his cheeks pinkening. It was one of the most gorgeous things Greg had ever seen.

“I should have gone slower, been gentler, and taken my time with you. I should not have taken you the way I did. My behavior towards you has haunted me because I’ve been afraid I damaged you- or worse. I remember you telling me you were fine, but that was only after the first night, and the next morning-”

“Your apology might be more convincing if you did not have another Omegas spendings on your trousers,” Mycroft’s voice wavered, but he was slowly recovering. “But I can assure you, I am not scarred from being the object of your crude sexual fumblings, which I suppose were only to be expected from someone such as yourself.”

That was a blow to his confidence, meant to hurt. It did. Greg tried not to let it show.

“I had no high ideals or expectations for my first sexual encounter because I always assumed I would never have one. So anything you could have done to me would have been acceptable.” Mycroft shrugged. “All I hoped for that night was that my first heat with an Alpha would happen with relatively little pain. And it did.”

Greg was agonized. “You shouldn’t have felt _any_ pain during your heat, Mycroft. That’s why I want to apologize. I didn’t mean to hurt you at all or cause you to suffer. You should have been treated delicately, deserving of your position. You’re a good person and you didn’t deserve that. A heat should be something pleasant and pleasurable, not something you have to grit your teeth and get through, and if I could do it over again I-”

Greg didn’t know what he’d said wrong, but the Prince’s face was suddenly florid with emotions. He didn’t even bother trying to keep them in check as he advanced on Greg so murderously he was forced to back up.

“You may have fucked me, Captain, and you may have had me on your knot, but I am not some swooning Omega who needs protecting. I was in need. You had a knot and were available. I consented. We had two short, brutal fucks. Nothing more and nothing less.” He whispered, and there it was. The low voice, his deadly calm settling like freezing ice into every syllable. “Although both of us would have preferred it hadn’t happened, it did. It was a situation born out of necessity and I can assure you that it will not happen again because I never want to experience that with you.”

Mycroft invaded Greg’s personal space, pushing into him with outrage, and over the stale scent of Greg’s own rut and the Omega's heat, he suddenly could _smell_ Mycroft. It made Greg’s throat go dry.

Mycroft wasn’t in heat, but from the way he smelled he had freshly came out of it. He had probably last knotted himself earlier that morning, and the smell of his heat still clung to him. Greg had never smelled Mycroft like this except during their time together, and the scent made his head spin with longing.

He didn’t know if Mycroft weren’t being as careful concealing his scent as he usually was, obscuring Omega with something neutral and Beta, but he smelled so good. Greg wanted to touch Mycroft. Pull the Prince to him and bury his nose in his neck, just so he could breathe him in. Scent him one more time. He smelled like Omega and heat and the visceral memories it evoked made Greg want him so badly he shook with it.

“Mycroft…” He leaned forward, inhaling shakily. Mycroft slapped him away, his lip curling.

“I never want you to touch me again.” His icy voice jarred Greg back to his senses. His eyes skinned Greg alive with hatred, stripping him to the bones. “Ever. Are we clear, Captain?”

Greg clenched his jaw against the pounding want and his inescapable desire. He breathed Mycroft’s scent in again, closing his eyes in bliss and not caring if Mycroft thought the worst of him for it because Mycroft had already ground him beneath his heel. That had been his goal. There was nothing else for Greg to be prideful over.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Mycroft stepped away, his face smoothing into impassive perfection again, regarding Greg with open disdain. “I’ve heard your apology, Captain. You may now go and plow whomever you wish with a clear conscience...but it seems you've already been doing that.”

He jerked open the door, sweeping out into the hallway...and was gone.

* * *

 

Mycroft made it back to his bedroom without anyone catching him, hurrying furtively through the palace and using the back stairway which no one except the servants who waited on the family used. He almost ran once he gained the landing, striding quickly down the carpeted hall, his rapid footfalls muffled so no one could hear him. He opened his door and threw himself inside his room with a small cry, locking it behind him with a tremulous sense of relief. Thank the gods no one had seen him.

What had he been thinking? Was he out of his mind? He had impetuously risked exposure, endangered all of his carefully laid plans for the safety of his little brother. And for what?

Mycroft pressed the back of a shaking hand over his mouth, allowing himself to slump fully against the door as the ridiculousness of what he had allowed himself to do washed over him. He was smarter than this. He should have known better.

It had seemed like such a good idea this morning, during the throes of his heat as he’d agitatedly used a new implement to knot himself. He had been trying and failing, over and over, to satisfy himself for hours, finally succumbing to hopeless sobs which no one heard and no one cared about. His body had been so tired. The third day of his heat and Mycroft had only managed to satisfy himself twice in all that time. His rim was loose and raw from too many unsuccessful knottings, his small cock swollen, and blood was caked under his fingernails where he had hurt himself in fruitless attempts, but also using the pain to distract himself from the terrible need that wouldn’t go away no matter what he did. It wouldn't go away.

His heat had never been like that before. Mycroft had been so scared.

Finally, early that morning, he’d managed it. Thankfully. Laying on his bed, his muscles cramping, too exhausted to even cry and with the smell of blood metallic and heavy in the air, Mycroft had knotted himself again- this time it worked- and orgasm flickered through him which didn’t even feel good. He’d wailed, so relieved it was over, and waited for his body to calm itself. He’d been slightly sick from unsatisfied need, mind hazy, and the idea of Captain Lestrade had entered his thoughts. The Alpha was never far away during Mycroft's heat anyway. He had thought of his Captain more than once over his last few heats, and especially this one as he’d tried, tried, tried, tried to bring himself satisfaction. Mycroft’s cheeks heated as he remembered the way he’d begged his mother for the Captain, and her unfeeling, adamant refusal.

Mycroft pushed himself away from the door and slowly made his way across his room, walking carefully so as not to jar himself. The sheets were stripped from his bed, taken to be burnt as was routine after his heat. Mycroft trailed a hand over the bare mattress, touching dried bloodstains which ruined the whiteness with trembling fingers. He noticed there was still blood beneath his fingernails and he closed his hand in a fist. His body smarted and ached, especially between his legs, but he didn’t try to touch himself to soothe the hurt. He’d done too much of that over the last three days, when he’d been out of his mind with heat and doing anything to just make it stop. More touching would only make it worse.

There was a hot bath waiting for him in the corner, steaming, behind the screen, and Mycroft stripped off his clothes, being careful not to look down at himself because he didn’t want to see, and stepped into it.

Pain.

Oh gods, so much pain.

The places he hurt smarted when the water touched them, and Mycroft whimpered, clinging to the side of the bath with white fingers as he tried to lower himself into it bit by bit, thinking a gradual entrance would lessen the pain. It didn’t. There was no escaping it and eventually he succumbed, letting go and biting his lip to keep from crying out as the water washed away the thin patina of blood, making the hurts smart and bleed anew.

There was soap and a soft linen near at hand and Mycroft looked at them- the idea of washing himself torture. He tried to get control of himself and master the pain while his body floated in the water, the smell of blood nauseating. Nothing was touching him but everything between his legs hurt. He didn’t think he’d be able to sit down for days. The agony only reminded him more of what he’d done this morning.

He had allowed himself to behave like a wanton slut, purposefully leaving himself smelling like heat and stealing into Gregory’s room as soon as he was able, as soon as he was sure his heat was over, and waiting for him. Like a whore craving a knot. He’d thought...well. Stupid things.

Mycroft felt along his cheek where his mother had slapped him yesterday when he’d been so panicked and incoherent with heat. It was tender, the skin puffy under his fingers. Gregory had touched him there, demanding to know who had hurt him. His skin felt odd, tingling from the contact.

Mycroft had thought he would proposition his Captain to share his next heat with him, thinking that if he smelled like an Omega in heat, available, ripe for the taking, that Gregory would be more likely to agree.

Of course not. Of course he wouldn’t. What a childish thing to believe.

While his mother had slapped him, ordered him to get control of himself and left, while Mycroft had locked himself in his bedroom, alone, and screamed and cried and eventually made himself bleed in attempt after vain attempt to relieve his heat, Gregory had gone out and found a willing Omega to fuck. Well, of course he had. Why shouldn’t he? He was an attractive Alpha, kind and generous. Mycroft was sure the Omega had enjoyed Gregory’s attentions.

Mycroft could expect nothing from Gregory Lestrade beyond his regular duties as Captain of the Prince's Guard. They weren’t a bonded pair, they weren’t together. Gregory didn’t even like Mycroft. He barely tolerated his presence. It was as his mother had said: Gregory had been dispatching a duty when he helped Mycroft through his heat because he was paid to take care of him. It had meant nothing. Mycroft was deluding himself to think otherwise.

Mycroft thought of seeing Gregory again, disheveled and smelling of heat and sex, dragging himself back to his room, and his heart broke all over again. It shouldn't, Mycroft sternly told himself. Gregory was allowed to do whatever he liked in his personal life. Mycroft had no rights to Gregory. He should feel nothing for him. He wasn’t allowed to feel anything beyond a professional regard for his Captain.

But Mycroft had wanted to hurt Gregory when he smelled the other Omega’s heat on him. It was childish and beneath him to behave like that, but Mycroft had wanted to twist the knife of his words in Gregory’s gut and make him feel even a fraction of the pain he had gone through the last few days, and the misplaced sense of betrayal. Most of what he said hadn't been remotely true, but he'd seen Gregory's reaction to the words and felt a fierce sense of vengeance.

Gods. What was he going to do now?

He had no one.

Mycroft leaned back in the bath and a few useless tears slipped from the corners of his eyes even though sentiment wouldn’t help his situation. Crying certainly wouldn’t. He knew that from recent experience.

Maybe he was overreacting and his fears were premature. Maybe this heat had just been particularly difficult because of all the stress he was under, preparing Northumbria and the palace to welcome the Alpha Prince, and managing the nobles in the north who were once again causing trouble.

Maybe, once it was all over and things were settled, his heat would be easier.

It was possible.

It was also unlikely.

Mycroft reached for the soap and linen, dragging them over his body with a wince. He needed to get clean and dispose of the water before Sherlock saw him. As for his heats...he didn’t know what he was going to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is 15, Sherlock is 11, Mycroft is 19, and Greg is in his late 20s.
> 
> I've been told that the correct address for Sherlock and Mycroft is "Your Highness" not "Your Majesty" and that since he will inherit the throne, Sherlock is the Crown Prince. Mycroft is just the Prince.  
> Thanks to skybluedays for letting me know :D

The carriage lurched precariously through the forest, tossing the occupants inside against the doors and roughly banging them about before managing to right itself, the horses snorting with nerves as they plowed forward. The road was rutted, the rains washing away parts of it and widening holes which, during the winter, had been only minor inconveniences, but now that Spring had begun, were turned into serious problems. The country had only just thawed so there had been no time to repair the roads yet. But even if the roads had been as smooth as butter, it still wouldn’t have helped the people in the carriage very much. Rickety and unstable, it was very old and bore the marks of all the years of its life. Almost ancient compared to the other carriages one would see on the roads, it creaked ominously with every hole and furrow its wheels jarred over, the wood straining, and the axels between each of the wheels rattling until the driver’s nerves were just as frayed as his passengers.

It had been a very, very, very long journey.

Inside the carriage, John Watson straightened himself on the padded seat, rubbing his elbow which had been painfully knocked against the hard wooden door on the last turn. It smarted, would probably turn into a colorful bruise later, and he tried to secure himself on the seat to prevent future painful repeats. He planted both hands to either side of himself, locking his elbows, and fixed his feet firmly on the floor which rattled and shook beneath the soles of his boots until his teeth jarred with it.

Across from John, his chaperone, Michael Stamford, copied him stoically but it still wasn’t enough to fully anchor him to his seat. Stamford was heavy and his jolly bulk bounced and slipped about worse than John’s slender frame. His usually good-humored face was ashen and his glasses were skewed, hanging from one ear but he didn’t try to fix them and risk giving up his precarious position on the seat.

“Gods willing, we’ll be there soon.” Stamford tried to sound confident, but it fell flat as the carriage hit another hole and John bounced completely off the seat, his arse lifting what felt like a foot in the air, before being thrown to the floor.

“ _Godsdammit_!”

“Prince John! Language!”

John opened his mouth to tell Stamford just what the fuck he could do with his godsdamned manners- when the carriage exploded.

Or well, it didn’t actually explode, but to John, who was rolling around on the carriage floor, it certainly felt like it did. His body hung, suspended in mid-air for what felt like an age, but he barely had time to brace for the impact before he was slamming back to the floor. He shouted in pain, his head hitting so hard his vision exploded with stars. He was certain he’d heard the floorboards crack under his weight and he experienced a thrill of horror at the idea of falling out of the carriage and being run over. That would throw a spanner in his father’s plans.

Oh, and while John was at it: godsdamn him, too.

John’s body hurt, pain radiating from one place to another in waves, and after his last jolt, all he was capable of at the moment was staring up at the distant ceiling of the carriage in stupefied surprise as he tried to make himself learn to breathe again. Nothing was broken, he didn’t think, but his head was pounding, a knot forming at the base of his skull, and his back was in agony, not helped from laying on the floor which vibrated and jarred him until his vision was fuzzy.

“John! Here!”

Stamford tried to pull John up, sacrificing his own precarious position and when they hit another rut he lurched forward. John shouted, new visions of being crushed beneath Stamford’s weight rushing through his mind (gods above the floor really would break then), and he struggled, pushing with all his strength to right his chaperone back on the seat. It worked. Thanking the gods for sparing his life, John struggled onto the seat beside Stamford and in a redundant move, his chaperone threw an arm across John’s body to keep him safe and from slipping to the floor again. It was a nice thought, but useless because now they both weren’t secure. John closed his eyes and pleaded with the gods that their journey would be over soon, muttering a litany of curses under his breath between each prayer.

“Godsdamn, godsdamn, gods- _fucking_ -damn, godsdamn…”

“We’ll be there soon.” Stamford said again and John wanted to curse at him too, but he clenched his teeth together and stared straight ahead instead. He did not want to alienate or antagonize his only friend on this hellish journey but after the last week of harrowing travel, John’s patience at Stamford’s relentless optimism was running thin.

“I think the worst is behind us.” Stamford said and it was such a godsdamn ridiculous thing to say that John forgot about being polite to him, unable to control himself any longer.

“No, the worst isn’t fucking behind us.” He had to yell to be heard over the clattering of the carriage but John Watson had never been one to care how loud his voice was. “We’re still more than two fucking hours from the palace and if we’re not dead by then it will be a bloody miracle!”

Stamford huffed, face turning red from John’s language, but it was a sign of how miserable he was with their conditions that he didn’t rebuke him for it. John seethed on the seat beside him, feeling worse than he already did for his outburst, but too angry to apologize for it.

Their journey had been a nightmare from the very beginning.

His already small retinue had been suddenly- the very morning he’d left his father’s Court- reduced further, leaving the handful of remaining guards scrambling to orient themselves with the new arrangements and throwing John into a bad mood. It was inconvenient, but John was used to not having protections or guards or soldiers at his disposal. He’d never been a part of a large royal train and besides, they’d make better time to Northumbria if they traveled light.

No, that wasn’t what had concerned him.

He was more concerned with the fact that his sister didn’t want him to leave the country with a contingency of his own soldiers. In case he was planning rebellion against her. She wanted him isolated, separated from any help and had talked their father into ordering the reduction, claiming it was an expense they didn’t need. King Watson, caring about his son only as far as how much money he could gain from his marriage to the Northumbrian Omega Crown Prince, gladly went along with her.

“No one is likely to attack you on the road.” He’d said, unconcerned, to John as they watched the remaining soldiers rush about in the dark of pre-dawn to accommodate their king. “They may not like a show of force anyway, in Northumbria, and that’s what this large a number would be.”

John hadn’t said anything, watching the chaos below as all his carefully made plans for his journey fell apart, with as neutral an expression he could manage.

“Listen here, John.” King Watson had spun John around, a heavy hand on his shoulder, and John immediately dropped his eyes, bracing for a lecture. Or a hit. He wasn’t sure which. His father had seemed in a good enough mood, but…

“Don’t be a whiny little cunt when you get there. You’re to impress them. You hear? There’s a lot of money at stake in this and I don’t care if you hate the ground that stupid little Omega walks on, you’re to pretend you don’t. Smile and act interested in anything he likes, even if you hate it. Flirt with him. Romance him.”

“He’s just a child…” John began, but it was the wrong thing to say. His father cuffed him on the head, then shook him by the shoulder for good measure.

“What the fuck does that matter?” King Watson growled. “How the hell did I raise such a weak little bitch like you? I blame your mother. She’s coddled you too much, I’ve always told her. Humph. I’ll speak to her about this later- I’m sure she’s put those stupid thoughts in your head. So what if he’s a fucking child? He’s an Omega, isn’t he? They all crave an Alpha to give them attention. Tell them what to do. Tell him how much you want him. Let him know you desire him. Give him the time of day and smile, steal a kiss here or there, and he’ll be all yours. He’s still young enough to be impressionable. You can sway him to your side, if you’re man enough and worth your knot, and make him think you love him- even if you don’t. You can tell him the truth once the two of you are married and you’ve knotted him- and the final payment from Northumbria has arrived. It won’t matter if he hates you then when he’s in heat, anyway. He’ll be begging for you, no matter what you do.”

John nodded his agreement, looking back to where the servants were readying the horses for their departure, feeling sick. He couldn’t wait to leave.

His father stepped closer, grasping John’s collar and bending down to whisper in his ear, sending a chill through John which he tried to suppress. He didn’t want his father to think he was weak.

“If you fuck this up, John, don’t bother coming home. Do you understand? If this betrothal breaks down because of something you do, or don’t do, or mess up and I lose all that money and connections...if you try and come back, for any reason, even to see your mother, it won't end well for you. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.” John replied, relieved when his father let him go and straightened up, walking away without a goodbye now that his job was done. John hid his shaking hands in the pockets of his cloak, glancing up to the North Tower where there was a small patch of light shining from one window. High and near the top. It was their signal. His throat closed up and he had to look away, blinking tears from his eyes before his father saw. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t allowed to say goodbye. It didn’t. His mother knew he loved her.

“We wait on you, Prince John.” The captain said, falling into position. “What are your orders, sir?”

John looked up at the sliver of light one more time, wondering if he would ever see it again, then turned his back to it. “I’m ready. We’re leaving.”

* * *

The journey to Northumbria had been hellish, but John thought it had really begun almost a year ago, when the envoys from Northumbria arrived to negotiate a marriage between himself and their Omega Crown Prince.

It had been very odd, in and of itself, for the Prince, the Beta, Mycroft Holmes to personally travel such a distance, and take an involved interest in the marriage prospects of his younger brother. He himself wouldn’t inherit the throne and the Omega Crown Prince’s marriage would have no effects for him.

John, who had been pitted against his sister from the time they were children, competing for everything from their place in Court to their father’s love, couldn’t imagine Harry involving herself in such an important decision for him unless it was to cause him some sort of harm.

It had been outside the norm, but John realized that even if Prince Mycroft maybe didn’t love his brother, he was ready to protect and fight for him, going toe-to-toe with John’s father in many points as they arranged the betrothal.

Prince Mycroft may have been an arrogant prick with his condescending attitude and scornful looks, but John grudgingly admired him. The Prince had watched King Watson rage and threaten during their meetings with a cool expression that had never wavered for a second. John had been careful not to let his father see (that was the quickest way to a beating and John hadn’t lived 15 years in his father’s Court without learning when to play dumb), but he’d been impressed. Prince Mycroft’s bravado may have had something to do with the tall, older Alpha who stood protectively behind him no matter where he went- his Captain of the Guard, Gregory Lestrade- with the heel of his hand always resting on his sword, but John really thought Mycroft Holmes was just a cold man.

He envied him.

But the strangest part of the marriage negotiations, at least to John, was that Prince Mycroft had insisted John actually be there for all of it, from beginning to end.

It was an arranged marriage. John’s input was not needed- or wanted.

His father had tried to defer, but Prince Mycroft was adamant. So John sat awkwardly at his father’s right hand, listening as they talked about dowries and land, money and properties, laws and consequences, when the Omega Crown Prince came of age, the conduct they expected from John before he reached majority, marriage ceremonies, securing alliances….

No one bothered to ask John’s opinion. He’d never even been asked if he wanted to marry the Omega Crown Prince. His father had briskly informed him that he would be, one morning before sword training. John knew better than to protest. That had been that. John had grown bored of the tedious meetings which went on for hours, wanting to be out in the practice yard with his sword, or riding his horse as the last days of autumn gave way to the winter cold. He let his mind wander, dazing in and out of daydreams, while his father crudely asserted that if the Omega Crown Prince was found to not be a virgin on his and John’s wedding night, he would be allowed to keep the dowry _and_ be further compensated for his son’s embarrassment. As if he cared. It was obvious to everyone in the room that he just wanted more money. Besides, it was such a crass thing to say about an 11-year-old child that John’s ears burned whenever the topic came up.

He kept his gaze on the table as his father talked about how Omegas were inclined to be sluttish and _loose_ , always looking for a knot to satisfy themselves with. John had grown angry on the unseen Omega Prince’s behalf, not brave enough to say anything though and hating himself every second, and every time John looked up, Prince Mycroft was staring at him, his eyes as cold as his voice.

* * *

 

“Remember the proper bow when you meet him.”

They finally reached a smoother portion of road and both John and Stamford slumped in grateful relief, their joints aching and ears ringing in the absence of the clatter and scrape of wood on metal. The lull in painful transportation allowed Stamford to take up the topic he was fondest of: the Omega Crown Prince and John’s conduct towards him.

John listened respectfully, but he secretly resented the lectures. Stamford was acting as if John were some knot-headed Alpha who was raring to mate his intended- who was a _child_ , in case everyone had forgotten- and would behave like a total animal if given half a chance. Which he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t.

The Omega Crown Prince was a child, four years younger than John. At 11-years-old, he was an innocent and was to be treated with the utmost respect and bearing or the betrothal was off. Prince Mycroft had been ferocious on that point, as if John would have acted any differently. The Prince’s lecture to John before he returned to Northumbria about the conduct he expected from John towards his little brother had stung worse than any well-meaning lessons Stamford gave. Months later, John’s pride was still smarting from some of the things the Prince had warned him not to do. Because the fact that the Prince thought John _may_ do some of those things was enough to make his blood boil. He was not that sort of Alpha.

His father may have wanted him to be, but his mother had raised him better than that.

“John? You do remember the bow? How it’s done?”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, Stamford.” He intoned. He had been practicing the same sodding bow for the last six months. It wasn’t difficult, but it was just the way he was supposed to perform it- since the Omega Crown Prince was a child- that was different.

This was John’s first encounter with the Northumbrian Court, and he needed to make a good impression. His entire future, maybe even his life if he wanted to be dramatic (and realistic), was riding on this meeting. If the betrothal fell through, if Prince Mycroft decided John wasn’t necessary, or if the Omega Crown Prince hated John on sight…

John shuddered. He didn’t want to think of what would happen to him, but he couldn’t ignore it. He didn’t have that luxury. His place in Scotland, in his father’s Court, was tenuous at best, and growing dangerous as he matured. John’s sister, the Alpha Princess Harriet, would inherit their father’s throne and John would get nothing- unless Harriet gave it to him. And that would never happen. Harriet was the first-born Alpha, the prize, the darling and jewel of the Scottish Court. John was the afterthought, the second-born Alpha. The spare which everyone knew was expendable.

No one really knew what to do with John either because he wouldn’t inherit and he held a redundant title. His father protected him, but only just, and John was clearly not his father’s favorite so most of the nobles didn’t bother being nice to him. Friendliness was bartered for favors, and there was nothing to be gained from being allied with John Watson. John had been educated, and taught in the ways of fighting from a young age, and before the Northumbrian delegation arrived, he had been considering joining the army. It was the best place for him. His father would be happy to get rid of him and would maybe even give him an officer’s position, or a generalship, if John asked him for it on a good day. He had tentatively spoken to his father about it, and not been rejected.

Then, the rumors of Harriet’s suspicions filtered their way to John, taking him completely by surprise. To want to join the army so he would be in perfect position to plot against his own sister and take the throne from her when their father died had never crossed John’s mind. Never. Not even in the darkest parts of the night when he sometimes lay awake, unable to sleep, and worried about what was going to happen to him. Such a move was more Harriet, than John.

The rumors had not been true, but Harriet’s behavior towards him- never the best- had considerably chilled and John knew that the best place for him was out of Scotland. In someone else’s Court. His blood ran cold when he thought of what would happen to him once his father died.

“The entire encounter this afternoon is his to dictate.” Stamford reminded John, pulling him from his morbid thoughts.

“What?”

“John.” Stamford frowned. “Are you paying attention?”

“Yes...sorry, I was just...but yes. I’m paying attention.”

Stamford gave John a skeptical look, but continued. “The betrothal ceremony is the Omega Crown Prince’s to dictate. Keep that in mind. Stand where you are told, at least 10 feet away from him, and after your bow, remain there. You should not move forward. Move only if he allows you to, and not before. Do not try to anticipate his wants. No doubt he’ll be scared of all the attention and it’s a daunting feat- meeting the person you’re going to be marrying in seven years.”

Stamford didn’t need to tell John that. Everyone seemed to be forgetting, in the hullabaloo surrounding the boy’s age, that besides him being married to John when he came of age…. _John_ was going to be married to _him_ too.

Gods above, what if he hated the Omega Crown Prince? What if he whined, or was spoiled? What if he wasn’t smart and refused to read or learn anything? Could he ride horses or fight? Could he spend all day outdoors and never grow bored? Would he rather sit inside and stare indolently at the walls? Would they have anything- anything at all- in common?

In the end, it didn’t matter if John hated the ground he walked on. They were going to be married. That was the end of it.

And he knew that other Alphas would literally kill to be in his position, for the chance to marry the Omega Crown Prince of Northumbria because that Alpha would inherit the throne and rule one of the richest kingdoms in their scope. Peaceful for more than a century, Northumbria was the place where all the scholars went, praising the universities and the temples and the people. The cities were modern, each containing a gorgeous palace where the Holmes family sometimes resided and the Holmes’ had reigned for time out of mind in Northumbria, expanding its borders and trade routes over the centuries- and expanding its coffers. It was rumored that some of the streets in Northumbria were paved with gold and that there was enough food for everyone, that no one ever went hungry.

John’s hurting arse could put paid to the idea that the streets were paved with gold. As for the food, he would wait and see.

“I won’t scare him.” John said. “I’ll stand where I’m supposed to and I’ll bow when I’m supposed to and I’ll move when I’m supposed to and I’ll say what I’m supposed to…”

“You should take this more seriously, Prince John.” Stamford sniffed, and at the use of his honorific, John knew he’d finally made his chaperone angry. A part of him didn’t care because he was tired of being treated like he would jump the little boy as soon as he saw him. Another part of him acknowledged that it was all being done to protect the Omega. John wanted that as much as anyone.

“I am taking it seriously, Stamford. I am. See? Look. This is me taking it seriously.” John indicated his face, without a trace of smile or happiness. He hadn’t felt like smiling in weeks anyway. “Really. But I’m tired of everyone acting like I’m going to hurt him.”

Stamford sighed, relenting. He could never stay mad at John for long. “I understand. Truly, I do. But you must remember that these people don’t know you yet. They’ll come to know you and your character over the years, but right now they don’t. Allowances have to be made for that…even if some of their suggestions are rather, well…unneeded.”

John thanked Stamford for his concession and secretly vowed to treat him better for the rest of the trip. Stamford was a good sort of Beta. He had been John’s mentor and teacher since he was a child and he’d been elevated to John’s chaperone for this trip. Even though it made him feel childish, John was glad that he wasn’t traveling to Northumbria alone.

“There is, however, one more point I must stress to you.”

John knew that tone of voice. He regarded Stamford warily. “What…”

Stamford cleared his throat, giving John a bracing smile, faking nonchalance and utterly failing. “You know it would be an egregious breach of etiquette for you to scent him. Nothing of that kind should ever happen until he is of age and the two of you are married.”

John nodded. He knew that. Scenting was an extremely intimate act, as close to having sex with one’s mate as...well, sex. The way John’s stomach twisted, he knew he wasn’t going to like what Stamford said next.

“The Omega Crown Prince is still a child, that’s true…however…he is. Well. He is allowed to grant you a token. If he so chooses.”

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What sort of token?”

“Now, remember to stay where you are told. But. If the Crown Prince so chooses, he may come to you, offer his hand for you to take, and scent his wrist.”

John’s face twisted in revulsion and Stamford hurried to explain the rest.

“You may take his hand but there are to be _no_ other points of contact between the two of you. At all. And you should only scent his wrist. Even this token scenting should be done quickly, don’t linger over it-“

“As if I’d _want_ to-“

“-and you should thank him afterwards.”

“Thank him?” John asked, incredulously. “ _Thank him_? For what?”

“Because it is a voluntary display of his willingness to trust you.” Stamford snapped, as if John were being dumb on purpose. “It will be the first time in your relationship that he is allowing you to touch him, even briefly, and scent him. His willingness to grant this, and your readiness to accept it may decide how the rest of your relationship will play out.”

John highly fucking doubted it. He did not- did _fucking_ not- want to scent an 11-year-old Omega’s wrist.

“But what if he doesn’t offer the scenting?” He asked, grasping at straws.

“Then he doesn’t.” Stamford said simply. “No one will see it as a rejection of you. In fact, because of his age, I highly doubt he was even told that was an option during this ceremony. I don’t expect it to occur, but I wanted you prepared in case it did.”

John nodded, faintly nauseated at the idea of being asked to scent the Omega Crown Prince, even at the wrist, in front of an entire Court of strange people whose eyes would be judging his every move. If the gods were generous, they would please not allow that to happen.

Please. Please, no.

“There’s no reason for you to worry. They’ll have told him how to behave and have drilled him in proper decorum, just as you’ve been. Chances are, he won’t want you to touch him at all.”

John knew Stamford had meant that to be reassuring, but considering how everyone was treating him, and the warnings Prince Mycroft had given him last year, it didn’t make John feel any better to think that the Omega would be so scared of him that he wouldn’t want John anywhere near him. John slumped in his seat, watching the countryside pass by, deep in thought.

He had to make a good impression on the Holmes. If Stamford wanted him to simper and bow, John would simper and bow. If he wanted John to scent the wrist of an 11-year old, much as he didn’t want to, he would. He would go along with anything that was asked of him if that meant he got to stay in Northumbria.

John thought of the Omega Crown Prince, whose face he still hadn’t seen. Crown Prince Sherlock. He hoped they would suit.

He didn’t expect them to ever fall in love. It was an arranged marriage and the very idea was foolish. But maybe they could tolerate each other enough to carve out a life together and be somewhat happy. John was determined to do his very best to achieve that. He just wondered what Crown Prince Sherlock was like…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember that everything stays on the up-and-up in this fic and nothing untoward will happen between John and Sherlock until Sherlock is of age.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I detail what happened during Mycroft's heat in this chapter, and his encounter with his mother. Just to offer a warning.
> 
> Please note: I've been told that the correct form of address for Mycroft and Sherlock would be "Your Highness" and not "Your Majesty" which would be reserved for their parents.
> 
> Also! Since Sherlock is the one who will inherit the throne, he is the Crown Prince and Mycroft is just the Prince.
> 
> Thanks to skybluedays for the information :D

“If you don’t hold still, young man- and you cause me to mess this up one more time- I’ll go and get your brother!” Mrs. Hudson snapped, her endless patience finally wearing thin after almost five hours of wrangling Sherlock Holmes, first bullying him into waking up, then bathing and dressing him and in short, doing her best to have him ready for the betrothal ceremony that afternoon.

Except he refused to cooperate. He refused to bloody stay still. That was all she was asking of him and he couldn’t even do that!

Sherlock rolled his eyes, heaving a long-suffering sigh and biting back a few choice words he wanted to hurl at his nanny because his notoriously short patience was long, long gone. He had been up since dawn. He was tired and annoyed and they had been snapping at each other for the last hour. But at the threat of Mrs. Hudson going to get Mycroft- which Sherlock knew she would do- he tried a bit harder to stand motionless, his arm extended to the side, as she finished lacing the intricate web of silk fabric on each of his sleeves.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he looked at himself in the mirror. He hated his outfit for the ceremony. Absolutely loathed it. It had taken months to sew, Sherlock going through endless fittings and refittings, each one taking hours, in a tedious, never-ending cycle. Trapped inside, unable to move or fidget in any way because he may ruin the carefully chalked lines on the fabric, the tailor taking his sweet time, Sherlock thought he would run mad. It had gone on so long that he’d wanted to scream.

He had. Once. Screamed.

He’d shouted at the top of his lungs after a solid hour of being forced to stay still and submit to being poked at with pins and needles. The tailor had completely lost his nerve, dropping everything, and almost crying, and Mrs. Hudson’s scoldings had followed Sherlock all the way down the hallway as he ran away.

It hadn’t been worth it, though.

When Mycroft found Sherlock, the angry lecture he received from his older brother was far worse than anything Mrs. Hudson could have said to him, and hurt more than being poked with every needle the tailor owned at once. Sherlock had been patient during his fittings after that. But he still hadn’t liked them.

Sherlock’s arm wavered, tiring from being held out for so long, and Mrs. Hudson’s fingers slipped over the lacings.

“Sherlock! Stay still!”

“I didn’t mean to do that!” He snapped back, receiving a pinch to his arm in retribution.

“We’re almost done.”

“No, we’re not!” Sherlock knew he sounded like he was whining, but maybe he was. He had been up since dawn getting ready for the stupid betrothal ceremony. He’d been bathed, then re-bathed when Mrs. Hudson said he hadn’t done a good enough job. As if he were a child who didn’t know how to wash himself. She’d muscled her way into Sherlock’s privacy- strong for an elderly woman- and over Sherlock’s vociferous protests, scrubbed at his hair until his scalp tingled.

Hearing the racket, Mycroft had strolled down the hallway connecting their rooms and stood leaned against Sherlock’s doorway, calmly fixing the sleeves of his own outfit while he watched the spectacle with a smile.

Blinking soap from his eyes, being pulled this way and that by his nanny while he was naked in the bath, Sherlock had glared at him. “Don’t you have somewhere important to be?”

“Not for another half hour.” Mycroft teased, giving Sherlock a devious smirk. He was fully dressed, besides doing up the laces, and the blue of the fabric clashed horribly with the fading bruise on his cheek which, after almost a week, had turned an ugly yellow and green. There was nothing he could do to hide it, though, so Mycroft just pretended it wasn’t there. Sherlock tried to pretend too. Neither were very successful.

As Mrs. Hudson pushed at Sherlock to lean forward so she could scrub his back, Mycroft tied off one of the laces and started on the other sleeve. Sherlock had watched with jealousy. Mycroft could dress himself one-handed, without needing an interfering nanny who badgered and harassed him, making him lift his arms so she could scrub under them. It was a skill Mycroft had taught himself out of necessity: he couldn’t have a personal servant without their discovering he was an Omega. So he made do. His fingers were long, nimble and deft, graceful as they handled the complicated laces, propping one arm against the doorframe so he could more easily twist them as they needed to go. Sherlock hated him. Mycroft wasn’t constantly annoyed by an old lady who reminded him that she’d changed his nappies when he was a baby.

“Besides,” Mycroft had said, “there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, finally seeing you bathe. You’ve started to smell as of late, you know, brother mine.”

“I have not!” Sherlock yelled, and inhaled a mouthful of suds.

“Have.” Mycroft laughed at him. “It’s from your insistence on visiting the stables every other day. Horses stink, and after you’ve wallowed with them for as long as you do, you can’t smell it anymore. Then, you come traipsing back up here-”

“I don’t _traipse_ -”

“-smelling like horses. Do you know what horses smell like, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t want Mycroft to tell him what he thought horses smelled like. He didn’t care what sodding Mycroft had to say at all. “I have not stunk!”

“Have.”

“Get out!”

“His elbows look dirty too, Mrs. Hudson.” Had been Mycroft’s parting shot, laughing as he ducked back into the hallway, dodging the bar of soap Sherlock flung at his head.

“Just a bit longer, dear…” Mrs. Hudson murmured, the statement sounding more like a prayer than an assurance to Sherlock. He didn’t mind. Both of them couldn’t wait for this to be over.

Sherlock lowered his arm with relief, letting the muscle relax, then lifted his other so it could be laced as well. He wished he could dress himself like Mycroft. Maybe one day he could. Mycroft would teach him, if he asked, how to lace the intricate clothing they wore for ceremonies and then he wouldn’t have to endure Mrs. Hudson doing it all the time.

It never took him this long to dress normally. And it shouldn’t any other time either, Sherlock thought, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. No one needed to spend upwards of two hours just being laced into their outfit- but everything he was wearing for the ceremony was so intricate, with tiny details and gold thread weaved into the blue of the material that had to be shown just so. The tight, dark trousers had lacings all up the sides of his legs, weaving in and out in complicated patterns. Which begged the question: why the hell had Sherlock been forced to go to so many fittings if the tailor wasn’t even going to properly sew his clothes together?

Sherlock’s mind boggled at the stupidity of it.

Then, there was his undershirt, properly tied and tucked into the trousers, his cream-colored shirt with the full, open sleeves which for some reason couldn’t be laced together until he put the blue tunic on….which also required more sodding lacings up the sides. Sherlock felt claustrophobic with all of the strings and ties done up, the material stiff and scratchy no matter which way he moved. It held him together, skin-tight, and he made himself regulate his breathing so he wouldn’t panic. It was a ridiculous idea- he wasn’t going to be strangled by his own clothes no matter how tight they were- but the fact that he couldn’t get them off quickly bothered him.

He wondered how he would be able to take it all off that night, if he would be allowed to take a knife to the knots or have to wait for Mrs. Hudson to unlace him.

Sherlock winced, trying his best not to shift, but he’d been standing the entire time and his boots were pinching his feet. His arms were shaky from being held out so long. If Mrs. Hudson didn’t finish soon, Sherlock thought he may take up screaming again-

“That’s you done, dear.” Mrs. Hudson declared with undisguised relief and Sherlock let out a thankful breath, dropping his arms tiredly and slumping as much as he could in the clothing. Mrs. Hudson patted and pulled at his sleeves a bit more, arranging the fabric just so, to make sure they looked proper. Sherlock let her carry on, feeling better now that he knew it was actually over, staring at himself in the mirror critically. He supposed he looked fine.

He’d certainly looked worse.

He eyed his nanny suspiciously in the mirror as she moved behind him, straightening everything, humming under her breath. She had threatened to use oil on his curls and comb them down when they finished dressing. Sherlock was already plotting his escape. That was the outside of enough.

He glanced behind him where the door to the hallway was still open since Mycroft’s retreat back to his own room. He could ask Mycroft to intervene. He knew his older brother would take his side if it was something Sherlock really hated, such as slicking his curls over his head until they looked like an ugly cap.

Sherlock didn’t want to bother him, though. For all that Mycroft acted like he was fine, and they both ignored the topic from unspoken agreement, Sherlock knew Mycroft was still recovering from his last heat. It wasn’t just the bruise that hadn’t fully faded from his cheek. He still held himself oddly when he walked, movements stilted and his features pinched. And more than once, Sherlock had caught him sitting in his room with his head in his hands, eyes closed, fingers gripping his hair as if he were trying to pull it from his scalp. Not doing anything else. Just. Sitting there.

Sherlock had snuck away before Mycroft saw him, unnerved, and never mentioned it.

Sherlock didn’t know what was wrong with Mycroft, not exactly, but he knew firsthand that his brother’s last heat had been a harrowing experience. Something neither of them wanted a repeat of ever again.

* * *

_Last week_

The knock on Sherlock’s bedroom door in the middle of the night was surprising.

Not because Sherlock was asleep, because he wasn’t. He was hunkered under the covers of his bed, holding a candle so he could read his book after bedtime, trying to turn the pages as quietly as he could so as not to get caught. Mrs. Hudson was just in the next room and had shouted at him last time she’d caught Sherlock reading in bed. But really. Her reaction had been unwarranted. Sherlock had only set fire to the bedclothes twice. And she seemed to forget that he’d put the fires out all by himself too. They hadn’t even been large ones, small flames if anything. Barely anything to get excited over. The large, charred holes in his linens had made the fires look worse than they were though.

The knock came again and Sherlock hastily set the candle on his side table and jumped down from his bed, padding across the cold floor.

Mycroft never knocked on Sherlock’s door during his heats. Ever. He stayed ensconced in his own room down the hall, not leaving it until his heat was over, only opening the door to get the trays of food Mrs. Hudson left for him. It was always unnaturally quiet during Mycroft’s heats, and even when Sherlock pressed his ear to the door (as he’d done once), he couldn’t hear anything.

When Mycroft’s heat was finally over, Sherlock wasn’t allowed to see him or come to his room before his bed linens, smelling strongly of Omega, had been burned and Mycroft had cleaned his room and bathed, keeping all traces of his heat from his little brother. Mycroft’s heat was an extremely private event and besides the one time he’d tried to listen at the door- just to see if Mycroft was alright more than anything- Sherlock had never violated Mycroft’s trust. He stayed in his own room, occupying himself as much as he could while waiting to get his older brother back again.

They did not communicate during Mycroft’s heats. Ever.

And Mycroft had never came to Sherlock’s bedroom during his heat.

The very idea was preposterous.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock whispered through the door, unsure who else it would be on the other side but...it was just so bizarre. They didn’t do this. They never did this.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice was shrill, thready with panic, and Sherlock’s heart dropped with fear. Something was wrong. He immediately reached for the door handle, turning it, pulling-

The door wouldn’t open. It remained tightly closed no matter how hard Sherlock tugged. There was no lock on it, though, to prevent them from seeing each other- and Sherlock suddenly realized that Mycroft was holding it from the other side, not letting Sherlock open it.

“Mycroft! What-”

“Sherlock. Don’t...don’t open the door. Please. Don’t. Just...just go and get Mummy for me...will you?”

Sherlock let go of the door, frowning at it as if he could somehow look through and see his brother on the other side. “What’s wrong?”

“Sherlock, _please_!” Mycroft sounded frantic and the door banged, the handle rattling, as if Mycroft had hit the door with his fist. Sherlock jumped, starting back from it. “I need her! You’re the only one who can...Just go and get her! Please?”

“Mycroft-”

“Sherlock! P _lease go_!” Mycroft wailed and Sherlock spun around without another word and bolted from his room, fear giving him motivation to brave the cold outer hallway as he dashed down it and out of his and Mycroft’s private wing. It was the middle of the night and the hallways were empty, so there was no one to see Sherlock running through the palace in his night things, a small, terrified white ghost flitting down the passages. Up the stairs, one set and then another, along another hall, up another flight, and then finally opening the door to the wing of the palace where his parents lived, out of breath and trembling.

Something was wrong with Mycroft.

Sherlock opened the first door he came to, the entire wing was a large series of interconnected suites so it didn’t matter where he started from. The distance to his parents would be the same. He startled the guards lounging in the outer guardroom and they jumped to attention, mortified by Sherlock’s lack of dress and trying their best not to look at him. Sherlock ignored them. He trotted past the guards and through the door opposite into his parents rooms.

The carpeting was plush beneath his feet, warming them somewhat from his race through the palace, but Sherlock didn’t take time to enjoy it. Candles were lit in sconces around the rooms he passed through, everything hushed and as quiet as a grave. The servants were still asleep, not yet awake to attend to their Queen and her Consort for the day. It was only Sherlock, moving as fast as he could through the luxurious, cavernous rooms, cold and alone.

By the time he reached his parent’s bedroom, Sherlock was out of breath and sweaty. He opened their door without knocking, but he momentarily quailed when he quietly shut it behind him.

His parents were both asleep in the large bed with elegant hangings and a canopy that extended up into the darkness. Their breaths were soft and the entire room was peaceful and dreamy. Sherlock had rarely been allowed in his parents bedroom. He could count the number of times on one hand, and he had never woken them during the night before. It wasn’t allowed. If he needed something, he asked Mrs. Hudson for it. He suddenly realized: maybe he should have asked Mrs. Hudson to help Mycroft…

But no. Mycroft had wanted Mummy. Mycroft knew the rules, and he had still sent Sherlock to wake her.

Swallowing down his uncertainty, Sherlock forced himself to walk to the bed, wondering just how angry his mother would be for waking her. But she would understand. She had to. Something was wrong with Mycroft. Mycroft needed her.

“Mummy?” Sherlock’s mouth formed the word but no sound came out. He bit his lip, working up his courage- Mycroft needed him- and tried again.

“M-mummy?” A little louder. Still not enough to wake her. “Mummy!”

“What- yes? Sherlock!” She woke with a start, and even in the darkness Sherlock could feel her disapproval. He knew she was scowling at him. “What are you doing here this time of night? Where is Mrs. Hudson?”

“I don’t need anything, it’s not for me.” Sherlock hastily explained. “Please. Mummy! It’s Mycroft.”

“What about him?” Mummy’s voice hardened and Sherlock didn’t understand why, but he quickly replied.

“I don’t know. He’s just...upset. He came to my room and wanted me to come and get you.”

Mummy stared at Sherlock a moment longer, and he worried that she wouldn’t come with him and he would have to go back to Mycroft without her. He remembered the fear in Mycroft’s voice. He couldn’t do that.

“I think...I think there’s something wrong with him.” He said and that seemed to work because Mummy sighed, but got up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and pulling on her heavy robe and slippers. She lit a candle and then peered at Sherlock.

“Sherlock! Did you come all that way from your bedroom dressed like this?” She asked angrily, tugging at Sherlock’s nightshirt, the ties of which had come undone. “Did you let the guards see you unclothed?”

The fabric gaped open around his shoulders and chest, but it fell to his shins and he didn’t think there was anything indecent about it. Everything was covered.

“I...I didn’t think...I meant to cover up-”

“Never mind.” Mummy sighed, draping one of her spare robes around him with sharp movements that let him know she was angry with him. “Later, we’ll discuss how a proper Omega Crown Prince should behave, which does _not_ include running around the palace naked, for every available Alpha to ogle. Come.”

Sherlock meekly followed her out of the tangle of their rooms, back through the guardroom, out of the wing, down the stairs, walking, walking, walking, and finally into his and Mycroft’s wing. Mummy walked sedately, not rushing herself, as if she were on a pleasant nighttime stroll and didn’t feel the fearful urgency of the moment. Sherlock’s heart knocked beneath his ribs from panic and he knotted his fingers in the soft fabric of Mummy’s robe, wondering what else could have happened to Mycroft while he’d been gone and Mummy was taking her time. He could barely stop himself from darting around Mummy and running back to his room ahead of her, just to see if Mycroft were alright.

They entered the suites through Sherlock’s bedroom, but Mummy stopped Sherlock when he tried to follow her down the hallway to Mycroft’s room.

“No, dear. You stay here.” She nodded behind Sherlock to his bed. “Go back to bed. Go to sleep. I’ll deal with Mycroft.”

She closed the hallway door behind her without waiting for Sherlock to obey, taking it for granted that he would, and normally, Sherlock would have. But something was wrong with Mycroft.

He was not going back to bed.

He listened to his mother walking away and counted in his head, a full minute, enough time for her to enter Mycroft’s bedroom, before easing the door open and going after her. It was a short hallway, and he tiptoed so they wouldn’t hear him, his bare feet silent on the stones, even going so far as to hold his breath when he neared Mycroft’s door. Sherlock could hear their voices inside, muffled. Mycroft’s stressed and high, Mummy replying quietly. Sherlock didn’t hesitate before pressing his ear against the door.

“-calm yourself, Mycroft.” Mummy was saying, her voice as cold as the stones beneath Sherlock’s feet. She sounded furious. “You’ve made yourself overwrought with this shameful lack of control. You’re obviously doing something wrong.”

“I’m not. I swear I’m not. I promise. I- I’ve been doing this for years, you know that. It’s been years. And I’ve never done it wrong before. I’ve never done it wrong. But it’s never been like this. Not even close.” Mycroft sounded so scared that Sherlock’s stomach clenched. He wanted to go to him and help, do something. Anything. That would make both Mummy and Mycroft mad though, so instead he closed his eyes, pressing his hands against the door as if he could somehow slip through and be with his brother.

“It hasn't. It’s never been like this before. I- I don’t know why it’s suddenly...suddenly so...I know I’m not doing anything wrong. I know I’m not. I know it. I’m doing everything right. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve tried everything. Please, Mum-”

Sherlock winced, jerking at the sudden, sharp slap. Mycroft’s voice cut off mid-word.

“ _Control yourself_. Mycroft.” Mummy hissed, and Sherlock couldn’t hear Mycroft anymore. “Take deep breaths. In, and out. In...and out. There, you are. Now. You have obviously let yourself become hysterical over something completely trivial. It’s how you managed to get yourself in this situation in the first place.”

“I haven’t, ma’am. I...was calm.” Mycroft spoke in fits and starts. “Everything. Was fine...and then…”

There was silence. Sherlock wondered what was happening. He pressed his ear closer to the door.

“You’ve worked yourself into a fine state.” Mummy said. “Look at you. Is this how you want to behave?”

“No, ma’am.” Mycroft replied hoarsely, and Mummy tsked.

“How many times have you found relief in the past two days?” She asked, sounding a bit kinder and Sherlock wondered what she was seeing.

“I...I….” Mycroft’s voice shook, and when he spoke again it was clogged with tears. “Only t-twice. Once th-the first day and then once….once last night. I-I’ve been trying. So hard. It’s been a whole day since….since the last one- Mummy...I can’t stand this-”

“You will.” She stated, implacable. “You have caused this to yourself in some way and you will fix. Mycroft, honestly. Look at what you’ve done to yourself. What on earth were you thinking?”

“I don’t...I don’t kn-know…”

“What sort of example are you setting for Sherlock?” She asked indignantly. “Hm? You’ve upset him, you know. Tonight, with your antics. Running to him and crying through the door like some spineless Omega. He shouldn’t see you like this, cowering in your bed, or know what an utterly pathetic brother he has. What would he think if he could see you right now?”

“I...don’t...he…”

“I should go and get him, and let him see you. All covered in blood and whining over your heat like a stupid, silly little Omega. I’ve never seen you act this way before, and Sherlock hasn’t either. Maybe letting him see you like this would finally get some sense into your foolish head-”

“No, please!” Mycroft begged frantically, his voice stronger than it had been during their whole exchange. “Please, don’t. _Don’t_. Don’t get Sherlock. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’ll...I’ll calm down. I will.”

Sherlock’s lip trembled as he listened to Mycroft taking deep breaths, trying to steady himself, surprised when he felt tears snaking down his own cheeks. He screwed up his face, wanting to go to Mycroft so badly- why was he covered in blood?- as an underlying whimper trickled into each breath Mycroft took.

“Lay down. Here- no, you need to stay covered. Get under the blankets. You may not realize it, but the room is chilly and you’ll only make yourself sick lying about like you are.”

“The sheets hurt...it’s...I can’t stand them touching my skin…”

“Relax.” Mummy talked over Mycroft as if she hadn’t heard him. “Close your eyes, close them...and relax. Relax…breathe…”

Sherlock listened as Mycroft’s breaths slowed and the whimpers slowly stopped. Maybe it was working...maybe Mummy knew what she was doing...what Mycroft needed...and he would be alright..

“Stop _squirming_ , Mycroft.” She suddenly snapped. “Stop moving around like that. Control this. You need to rest.”

“I don’t...know if I can...it’s...I told you it’s been...it’s been a whole day since...since….the last one and I...I...everything _hurts_ …everything...”

“If you will just listen to me and calm down, you will be able to find relief again. I know what I’m talking about” Mummy said. “And even if you don’t, you’ll be fine. You know you will be. Omegas survive all the time without being knotted and finding relief during a heat. Oh, I’m not saying it’s a _good_ feeling, Mycroft, there’s no need to look at me that way.” She sniffed. “But you won’t _die_ from not coming during a heat. It's physically impossible. There will be no lasting effects to your body once your heat is over if you don’t. And really, there was no need for this nonsense tonight. You should have been fine when you realized that you only have...what? Seven or eight more hours of heat? It will be over before you know it.”

“I don’t know if I can…”

“You will.”

“Please.” Mycroft began, so quietly Sherlock almost couldn’t hear him. “Please...will you...may I please-”

“Don’t even say it.” Mummy growled, and it was a sign of how far gone he was, how distressed Mycroft felt, that he didn’t heed the warning.

“He could help.”

“Out of the question.”

“Please. Mummy, please. Please. I...I can’t stand this. I can’t. I’m trying. I promise I’m trying as hard as I can.” Mycroft’s voice wobbled. “It just...it hurts so badly. I can’t...I can’t fix it. Please. I wouldn’t ask unless I was desperate. But. Please...can I...can I have...Captain Lestrade? I feel like I’m going out of my mind. I promise I won’t-”

Sherlock jumped at the sound of two more sharp, ringing slaps in quick succession. Mycroft fell completely silent. No matter how closely he listened, pressing his ear against the wood until it hurt, Sherlock couldn’t even hear him breathing.

“Why should I go and get the Captain? So he can knot you and then crow about it down in the barracks to all the rest of your Guard? Brag about getting to fuck the Prince of Northumbria like a common whore?” Mummy laughed, brittle and so mocking that even though it wasn’t directed at him, Sherlock cringed. “I will not pay that man to alleviate your heats, Mycroft.”

“I know that, I know.” Mycroft heaved in deep breaths and it sounded like he was trying to calm himself down again. “I know, I know, I know…”

“You surprise me. Do you ever think of your brother, at all, Mycroft?” Mummy asked. “Do you ever pause to think of how your actions affect Sherlock?”

“Yes, ma’am. I do. All the time....I promise, I do-”

“I doubt it, when I see you acting like this. Begging for the Captain’s knot. What would Sherlock think if he knew your _wonderful_ Captain Lestrade was being called to your room in the middle of the night to mount and knot you like a bitch in heat?”

Mycroft was silent, and Sherlock waited with breathless pause.

“He would lose all respect for you, Mycroft, just as I am doing. You should have more control of yourself than this. I didn’t raise you to behave in this fashion. Do you even have the necessary supplies if the Captain did come to knot you?”

Mycroft was quiet, then- “No, ma’am.”

Mummy snorted. “So you want me-”

“Please, don’t-”

“ _Be quiet_. You want me to go and get your precious Captain Lestrade, so he can help you _oh so generously_ through your heat- from the kindness of his heart, because he’s bound to you by the vows he’s made.” She said derisively. “You want him to knot you, and breed you up. Is that what I am hearing?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I know I explained to you where babies come from, and I thought you were smart enough to understand the lesson, but perhaps I need to remind you again. You were very, very lucky the last time that man touched you, Mycroft. Very lucky. You could have fallen pregnant because you told me that no precautions were taken- well, of course not on his part. It would do his career good to have a child by the Prince, wouldn’t it?” She snorted. “But that wouldn’t have happened anyway.”

“...Ma’am?”

“I wouldn’t have allowed you to keep it.”

Utter silence descended in the room and outside it, Sherlock was numb, toes icy, fingers frozen in place and white to the lips as he realized what his mother was saying.

“Now.” She said briskly, unaware she had irreparably damaged her relationship with both her sons. “Here is what you are going to do. You will stop this crying. Clean yourself. You will calm down and act like a respectable Prince should. Then, you will try again and this time you will find relief. And even if you don’t, you will not behave this way again because it is completely unnecessary. You will lay quietly and wait for your heat to pass. Do you hear me, Mycroft?”

Sherlock didn’t hear Mycroft respond, but he must have done in some way because Mummy kept talking.

“And if you disturb Sherlock again with this foolishness, I will remove him from this wing and put him closer to Daddy and myself, so he won’t be tainted by your influence. Are we clear?”

Sherlock heard Mycroft whisper something, so softly he couldn’t hear the words, but it must have been an affirmative because Mummy didn’t say anything else except-

“Goodnight, Mycroft.”

Sherlock turned and fled, dashing back down the hallway as fast as he could and threw himself into bed with a flying leap. He scrambling beneath the covers, settling himself just before Mummy came in. She closed the door behind her, stalking through Sherlock’s room and not glancing at him once, assuming he had done as he had been told and gone to sleep. When she was gone, Sherlock laid in bed for long minutes, not knowing what to do, his brain struggling to process everything he had just heard, torn over what would be the best action.

One thing was certain: he had to check on Mycroft.

Sherlock crept back down the hall on silent feet and stood outside his brother’s door, pressing his ear against it again. He could hear Mycroft sobbing inside, sobbing so hard it sounded like it hurt and Sherlock’s own chest ached just from hearing it. He didn’t know that his brother could sound that way, and he didn’t want him to sound that way. It was terrible. He sagged against the wood, wanting to help.

What could he do?

Sherlock slid down and sat with his back against the door, his bottom on the cold, stone floor as he listened to Mycroft cry. He should go back to bed, he knew, but he wanted to be close to Mycroft. So Mycroft wasn’t totally alone. Just in case he needed him.

Sherlock lost track of how long he sat in the hallway listening to Mycroft cry, eyes closed, turning over what he’d heard his mother say, examining it from every angle, realizing how she had held Sherlock himself over Mycroft's head, using Sherlock as leverage against him, to make Mycroft behave the way she wanted, because she knew how much Mycroft loved him, understanding the hurtful things she had said to his brother, and a few of his own tears slipped down to drip on his chest, hot from impotent rage.

Because Sherlock knew there was nothing he could do. He was wholly dedicated to Mycroft, and he may hate his mother now, but there was only so far he could rebel against her. While he was a child, anyway.

Mycroft started screaming- and it happened so suddenly, without any warning, that Sherlock scrambled away from the door in alarm, gasping, choking on air. The screams were muffled, as if Mycroft were facedown on the bed or holding a pillow over his face, but as close to the door as he was, Sherlock could hear them. The smothered screaming continued, over and over, Mycroft barely pausing for breath-

Sherlock rushed forward and tried the door handle. It was locked. He pounded on the wood with his palms, making them smart and hurt. “Mycroft! Mycroft! Let me in!”

Silence fell, the screaming abruptly cutting off, and somehow, the silence was worse than the screams. Sherlock tried the handle of the door again, jiggling it even though he knew that wouldn’t help.

“Mycroft? Are you alright?”

“Sherlock?”

“Mycroft, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Sherlock could feel himself crying and he beat on the door again, as if that would somehow bring it down. Mycroft was quiet, and Sherlock stopped trying to get in, pressing against the door again.

“Mycroft…I’ll help you. I’ll….I’ll sit with you...You won’t have to be _alone_.” His voice broke, and he started sobbing, so upset his throat closed up from tears.

“Go away, Sherlock.” Mycroft whispered, his voice squeezed down into something small and defeated. “I didn’t mean to upset you tonight. I'm sorry. Just. Please go away.”

“I want to help- Mycroft, please-! I can help- I’ll do anything!” Sherlock meant it. He would do anything for his brother. Anything. If it would make Mycroft happy, if it would stop him crying and screaming. “Do you...do you want me to go and get Captain-”

“Go away!” Mycroft shouted and something heavy hit the door, startling a cry from Sherlock. “Go away!” Mycroft shouted again and Sherlock turned on his heel and ran back down the hallway, slamming his bedroom door and throwing himself into bed before breaking into angry sobs.

The next morning, Mrs. Hudson brought Mycroft’s bedding into Sherlock’s room to be burned in his fireplace, as it always was after his heat. They tried to keep all parts of Mycroft’s heat from Sherlock as much as they could, but living as close as they did, it was impossible. She had thought Sherlock was asleep, but he hadn’t been. Slitting his swollen eyes open in the grey rays of dawn, he had seen the blood on the linens, the handprints and smears, before fire consumed them.

Tensions between Mycroft and Mummy were frigid and while they were politely civil to each other in public, the bruise spread over Mycroft’s face proved they were anything but in private. Of course, no one knew where it had really came from, and Mycroft put out a story of negligence and a rough fall, acting sheepish and taking the blame for the injury. It was a good story when he told it and everyone seemed convinced, but Sherlock had seen Captain Lestrade’s eyes narrowed, lips drawn, and knew Mycroft hadn’t convinced everyone.

Sherlock hadn’t asked Mycroft what was wrong, or what had happened, and he had pretended not to see the black and purple bruise on Mycroft’s cheek. He had acted as if nothing was wrong because it seemed like that was what Mycroft wanted. And Sherlock was old enough to realize that if his brother wanted to discuss something with him, he would, and not a second before.

He knew Mycroft appreciated the gesture though, because the previous night he came to Sherlock’s bedroom as he was getting ready for bed, hugging him from behind and burying his face in Sherlock’s neck for a brief scenting.

“Thank you, Locky.” He mumurmed and Sherlock hadn’t asked what he was thanking him for. He could guess. He’d clung to Mycroft’s arms wrapped around his chest, squeezing them as much as he could.

“I love you, My.” He took a breath. “And nothing will ever change that. I promise. Ever.”

It was the closest he would come to letting Mycroft know everything he’d heard and Mycroft’s arms tightened around him briefly. He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s cheek before stepping away.

“I love you more. Now, go to bed- and don’t set fire to your sheets again.”

* * *

 

“Do you remember your bow?” Mrs. Hudson asked, tidying the room as Sherlock gingerly lowered himself into a nearby chair. She startled forward when she saw what Sherlock was doing. “No, no, no! Don’t _sit_!”

“I have to sit! My legs are tired!”

“You’ll wrinkle your clothes.” Mrs. Hudson said, pursing her lips in disapproval when Sherlock didn’t move. “Well. Don’t sit too hard then.”

How could someone sit _too hard_? Sherlock rolled his eyes again- they were actually starting to hurt at this point- but tried to sit _softly_.

“Do you remember your bow?”

Sherlock stared at Mrs. Hudson, not dignifying that question with a response. He had been practicing the same bow for months. He could bow to the Alpha Prince John Watson in his sleep.

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes sparkled, full of mischief. “What about the _other_ gesture we’ve practised?”

Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson his own sly look, slowly grinning. “Yes. I remember.”

When Mrs. Hudson had offered to teach him a gesture that Mycroft didn’t want him to know, and had asked her politely to keep Sherlock in ignorance about, Sherlock had jumped at the chance. He’d wanted to learn it just because Mycroft didn’t want him to.

Not that he would use it.

Once Sherlock realized what the gesture was, and what it meant, he knew he wouldn’t perform it during the betrothal ceremony. He had still practised, though, because it was thrillingly illicit to know something Mycroft didn’t want him to.

Mrs. Hudson closed the wardrobe in the corner, sniffing and dabbing at her cheeks. Sherlock eyed her suspiciously.

“You’re not going to start crying again, are you?” He didn’t want to see Mrs. Hudson cry. It made him uncomfortable. And she had been weepy ever since Mycroft announced the betrothal ages ago. She cried at odd little moments, over Sherlock’s clothes, or when he practiced his bow, even though Sherlock reminded her daily that he wouldn’t be married for years and years.

“No, no. I won’t cry today, dear. I know I’ve done a lot of it these last few weeks-”

“Months.”

“But you have to understand it from my side, Sherlock. I’ve taken care of you since you were a little baby.” Mrs. Hudson reminded him unnecessarily, sitting down across from him and smoothing her dress over her knees, giving Sherlock a loving look which he warmed under, even if he pretended he didn’t. They may row with each other daily, but he loved Mrs. Hudson fiercely. He just wasn’t going to tell her that.

“I know that.” He said. “But it’s silly to keep crying because it’s not like I’m going anywhere. I'm the Crown Prince. Even when I get married, we’ll still be living here. The Alpha and I. I won’t be leaving. That’s the _point_ of this whole plan.”

“Oh, I know. But it’s just that you’re growing up so fast. Look at you.” She sniffed again, giving Sherlock a watery smile and nodding at his outfit. “You look so handsome and grown up dressed like that. I can’t believe how much you’ve changed in the last few years. I remember when you were a little baby, so tiny, with the cutest tuft of black hair that I couldn’t do anything with. And now...here you are. I’ve bathed you and changed your nappies, taken care of you all your life, and I’ll be so proud, watching you finally get betrothed.”

Sherlock made a face, letting his mind wander while Mrs. Hudson prattled on in the same refrain she’d talked of for weeks. Some parts of it, Sherlock could recite from rote memory.

“I’m so proud of you.” She said again. “We’ll have the betrothal ceremony today, and the Prince will stay for a few months so the two of you can get to know each other. The Royal Tour will be a great time for that and your brother’s asked me to act as chaperone for a while, when he and the Captain can’t be there.” She sighed, smiling. “I hope the Alpha’s everything good and wonderful for you, dear. And if he is, I won’t be able to wait for your wedding, to see you actually settled with a nice Alpha and happy. And, you know, with any luck, if I live that long, I’ll take care of your babies too. Just like I took care of you. Of course, if they’re anything like _you_ , I’ll have my hands full…”

Sherlock gazed longingly out the window, where everything was sunny and bright. He wanted to be outside, in the stables, out of these stiff clothes and playing, or reading in the conservatory. Or visiting the apiary which was bustling with activity as the bees flew in droves, in and out, stretching their wings after the winter frost and hunting out the fragrant flowers in his mother’s gardens. He could sit and watch them for hours at a time, if he could. Sherlock wondered how long the ceremony would last and if he would maybe have time later to go outside. Mycroft had said there was a dinner that night, something small and intimate for the family only, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go out before-

“You’ll do _what_?” Sherlock jerked himself out of his thoughts, sitting forward anxiously as what Mrs. Hudson had said penetrated his mind. “What did you say?”

Mrs. Hudson frowned, stopping mid-sentence, her hand still raised to dab at her eyes. “What?”

“What did you say? Just now? You said with any luck, you would do...what?”

“I said with any luck, if I live that long. Gods know that you’ve taken years from my life with some of the experiments you’ve tried doing-”

“No, no! _After_ that. You said if you lived that long you would…”

“Oh! I said with any luck I would be able to take care your babies too, just like I did with you.”

“What babies?” Sherlock’s lips were numb and it was all of a sudden hard to breathe in his room. He couldn’t get enough air even though there was a light, spring breeze, cool and refreshing, sending the curtains fluttering. He stood up on shaky legs, staring at Mrs. Hudson in horror.

How could he have forgotten that? How?

He had been so preoccupied the last few months- worrying about whether or not he and John would suit, what John was like, what he looked like, what his personality would be, if he were a brute or a boor, and whether they could ever possibly get along, to remember…to remember…

“The babies you and the Prince will have together, once you’re married.” Mrs. Hudson explained and Sherlock took a step backwards. “But that’s still years away, Sherlock.” She soothed, and Sherlock backed up another step, panic fluttering in his chest.

He’d been so stupid. How could he have forgotten?

Because he had been so worried about how he’d probably hate John and imagining how he would have to grit his teeth and get through future heats with a spouse he still hadn’t met. Worried about Mycroft and what was wrong with him, his heartbreak and upset to remember…

To remember…

“At least eight, probably nine years away- if not more.” Mrs. Hudson was still talking, realizing Sherlock was upset and trying to make it better. It wasn’t helping. “That’s not something you need to be concerned about now…”

How could he have forgotten that he would be expected to produce an heir? He was the Crown Prince. This wasn’t just a betrothal so that eventually Sherlock would marry John which meant an Alpha would be able to succeed to the throne after his mother and both Sherlock and Mycroft would get to stay in Northumbria together. No. He would be expected to have an heir and secure the line. He had been so worried about whether or not he would like John and what his heats would be like to remember the results of those heats. Pregnancy. Babies.

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He really couldn’t. The laces on his clothes were too tight and the open, airy room felt narrow and cramped. He kept backing away from Mrs. Hudson who was trying to comfort him, approaching slowly like he was a frightened animal, saying she hadn’t meant to upset him, hadn’t his brother told him-?

Sherlock couldn’t hear her over the roaring in his head. Of course he’d been told that pregnancy was the result of a heat and the requisite knotting, unless certain precautions were taken. He knew that. He knew all about it because his mother had told him, and then Mycroft had told him. He’d known that his father had given birth to both of them, and how and why. He'd seen other pregnant Omegas once in a while. He’d just somehow forgotten that it was going to apply to _him_.

And it didn’t matter if it happened nine years from now or nineteen. It would happen. It was going to happen. It would be forced to happen. He was the Omega Crown Prince and he was betrothed to an Alpha and when he was of age they would marry and Sherlock would submit to his presence during his heats and then the entire Court- the entire country- would be breathless in expectation for him to produce a…

He needed air.

Sherlock fumbled behind him, his hand finding the doorknob, and he flung the door open, sprinting out into the hallway, startling a maid who screamed and dropped a stack of linen. He didn’t stop to apologize, dodging around her and sprinting down the hall.

Air. He needed air.

* * *

 

Down in the barracks, Greg was finishing dressing, his ceremonial clothes much less complicated than the Princes and easier to put on. They looked mostly like his regular uniform- trousers, shirt, tunic- except dyed a pretty blue to match the decor and with a coordinating, and unnecessary, cape. He was due at the palace in another half hour, and had already been there the majority of the morning supervising the preparations and placements of soldiers. He’d worn his old uniform though, not wanting to dirty the fresh, clean outfit he’d been given to wear for the ceremony because the idea of the Prince seeing him looking less than his best again was enough to give him physical pain.

Well. The less Greg thought about that the better.

He was just draping the cape around one shoulder, fixing it in place with a pin, when there was the sound of running feet outside his door and then hurried pounding.

“Captain! Captain!”

Greg opened the door, frowning at the sight of Arthur, a Guard who was supposed to be stationed at the palace entrance- and who had been told not to move from there unless instructed. His clothes were skewed and sweat ringed his forehead from his dash down from the palace. Unease trickled up Greg’s spine. “What is it?”

“Captain Lestrade. You’re needed at the palace immediately, sir.” The young man panted, bending over slightly and clutching at a stitch in his side.

“What’s happened? I’m not due there for another half hour.”

Aruthur shook his head. “They want you now. Or, I mean. The Prince has requested your presence.”

A beat of surprise, then worry because nothing good was happening if the Prince were calling for him. Greg nodded, rushing to grab his ceremonial sword from the bed and strapping it around his waist, tugging at his cape when it got in the way. Useless thing. “Do you know why?”

Arthur straightened, still clutching at his side. “They’re saying that he can’t find Crown Prince Sherlock. Entire palace is topsy turvy over him and the Prince himself got involved in the search. He’s been looking for him the last hour and there’s still no sign of him. That’s when he asked for you- well, shouted is more like it.”

“Godsdammit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took inspiration for Sherlock and Mycroft's clothes from the way Laurent's were described in Captive Prince, tight and with lots of laces. They sounded, and looked, so pretty. I thought the Holmes boys would look dashing in them as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been told that the correct form of address for Sherlock and Mycroft would be "Your Highness" and that "Your Majesty" would be reserved for their parents.
> 
> ALSO: Since Sherlock is the one who will inherit the throne, he should be the Crown Prince and Mycroft would only be the Prince.  
> Thanks to skybluedays for letting me know!

“If it pleases you, these will be your rooms during your stay in Northumbria, Your Highness.”

John trailed behind the servant- a pretty young Omega woman in a starched, light blue uniform- through a pair of ornate double doors, then paused, staring in awe at the room in front of him.

Opulence, was the first word that came to mind.

Bloody fucking staggering was another.

John tried not to let his amazement show. He was the sodding Prince of Scotland, in Northumbria to be betrothed to their Omega Crown Prince, and he didn’t want the servants to talk about how he’d gawped like a poor country cousin when he saw the interior of the palace at Marseille. It was hard to keep his expression blank, however, when he saw the rich elegance surrounding him.

The palace at Marseille, the Northumbrian capitol, could be seen from afar, as soon as one was close to the city, situated on a nearby mountain over the city itself and rising from the surrounding trees like a sleeping giant. It was a sprawling structure made all out of white stones with towers jutting towards the heavens here and there while multitudes of windows gleamed, reflecting the bright spring sunshine and almost blinding John as he’d looked at it.

Holy fuck.

It wasn’t as if John had never seen a castle before. Scotland had a number of them scattered across the country, but none were even close to the grandeur of Marseille. The castles John was used to were made of rough stone, either brown or grey which had been quarried from the land nearby. Upright and sturdy things which squatted on a hill over the towns like a miser surveying their tenants. No time or money had been taken to add extraneous flourishes and the overall effect was a drab plainness. King Watson’s castles could generously be called reliable. Hardy. Sturdy enough to last the centuries. They could not be called beautiful. They were full of dark stone passages and slitted windows which protected the people inside from invaders' arrows but never let in enough sunlight to banish the shadows. There were plenty of small rooms containing the essentials, perhaps with an added a tapestry here or there, and many of the rooms had fireplaces to keep the occupants warm. Only a few, however, were decorated in obvious wealth (the throne room, the family’s bedrooms, the places his father met with his subjects). Otherwise, they were all muted. Lackluster. Rather dull, but dependable.

That was not the case at Marseille. Not even close.

From far away, the palace was breathtaking. Once he and Stamford actually arrived and were able to crane their necks and look up at it as it soared above their heads to impossible heights, it was overwhelming to John. Terrifyingly so.

John's eyes had jumped from one thing to the next as he’d been lead from the entrance of the palace to his private rooms. His gaze was pleasingly assaulted no matter where he looked with beauty and elegance and culture. It was too much to take in all at once. It was impossible. He hadn’t even tried. John admired the close attention to artistic, flourishing details that were displayed in every room and hallway they passed through, every small passage their party crossed. Even, in some areas, the ceilings themselves were brilliantly painted, lovely scenes like from a fairytale splashed across the expanse in stunning, colorful magnificence. Splendid craftsmanship was exhibited on the columns and stairs, the stone archways and gleaming floors, all of which revealed the work of hundreds of years of effort and toil. Everywhere John looked, he saw beauty- stylish, sophisticated beauty.

He felt extremely out of place in the middle of it.

The room the Omega maid bowed John into was an apt extension of the rest of the palace. Resplendent with sunshine that spilled in from a row of wide windows which were opened to allow the fresh breeze to ease through the apartment, John’s room was done all in creams and golds. From the furniture, with its curving arms and soft upholstery, to the carpets (John winced because surely such a pale color showed dirt?), and all the accoutrements of the room were pale, ridged with gold. Mirrors and a desk, a low table and a collection of comfortable chairs gathered around it, the window seat, the vases and even- John looked up- the simple chandelier which dangled above their heads, the crystals chiming faintly in the light breeze. John stared at everything, trying to keep his expression neutral, while the maid smiled patiently at him, her hands crossed in front of her. John glanced around, trying to get his bearings and wishing Stamford was there to help.

“Um. Sorry, but. Where….where’s the bed?”

No matter where he looked, there didn’t seem to be anything else in the room but what he saw, and while the sofa looked comfortable, John didn’t want to spend the next few months sleeping on it.

The maid looked abashed at his question. “Oh, _no_ , Your Highness. Pardon me. This isn’t your bedroom. This is just the entrance to your rooms. Your private sitting area, where you may receive guests if you so desire. If it pleases you,” She motioned helpfully, quickly stepping to show him,”through this door is your bedroom.”

John didn’t know who was more embarrassed, himself or the maid, but he watched as she opened a door which he’d assumed earlier was only a decorative panel in the wall. The handle was a little golden bird that, when twisted, swung the door open, and the maid motioned John inside.

Oh, gods.

John had thought- hoped- that the bedroom would have been plainer than the sitting area, or the rest of the palace. It wasn’t. His boots _sank_ into the thick rug that carpeted almost the entire floor of his room, and he winced again that he was still wearing his boots. The bedroom was done all in varying shades of blue- duvet, flowers, vases, chest of drawers, benches, rug, the privacy screen in the corner- with pretty flowered friezes painted around, and more gold edging along everything.

John gave in and gawped like the poor country bumpkin he so obviously was.

And that wasn’t the end of it. John wasn’t just being given a sitting area and bedroom for his stay in Northumbria. _Oh no_. Not at Marseille.

There were even more rooms which could be accessed through other doors, all interconnected which the maid intimated was the way the “much grander” royal family apartments were laid out. John couldn’t imagine what could be more grand than what he was being shown as he followed her through the succession of rooms, all just as tastefully fitted up as the next. They passed through his wardrobe, large enough to be a bedroom all on it’s own, then the small adjacent room where Stamford would sleep, a little room lined with books, not a proper library but a study where the maid said he could write his correspondence in private. There was a loo, a small dining area (“If it pleases you to have a small party during your stay”), and another parlor, this one rather empty, and the maid informed John he may do with the room as he liked.

“I believe the Crown Prince and his brother use theirs for exercise during the winter months. Forgive me, Your Highness, but I’m told you are a sword fighter?”

“Uh. Y-yes. I am.”

“If I may suggest, you could use this parlor for a private practice area when the rains keep you inside. Of course, the training areas in the barracks are always at your disposal, but if you perhaps did not wish to go far you may consider it. And you needn’t worry about the floors and there’s nothing that can be broken, Your Highness.”

She beamed kindly, and John felt a stab of genuine gratitude for her sweetness. He thanked her profusely for all the help she had been as he followed her back through the maze of rooms, but was mercifully glad when she was finally gone and he was, briefly, all alone.

John sank onto the nearest chair with trembly knees. He felt so out of place. He didn’t belong here. Not in a place so grand that even the servants were used to better luxury than he was.

What the fuck was _he_ , the unwanted Alpha from Scotland, John Watson, doing here? John leaned back against the soft material, light-headed with the realization that he was supposed to marry the Northumbrian Omega Crown Prince. The boy who had been raised in this wealth all his life. What would such a person be like? Spoiled, hopelessly spoiled and no doubt he would be able to smell that John’s family wasn’t as rich and would scorn him for it. He would hold John in contempt the rest of their lives as someone who was beneath him.

But there was nothing else for it. John would marry him in this very palace. Maybe even in the chapel with the enormous stained glass windows that he had been shown earlier, with an assurance that Crown Prince Sherlock would be showing him personally around the palace at a more leisurely pace, once John was settled and after the betrothal ceremony. John could already imagine the cutting remarks which would be made at his expense. He vainly hoped he would be able to get out of it. 

He was here to be betrothed. One day in the future, he would marry the Omega Crown Prince, no matter how much the boy would hate him, and when the time came, John would own all of this. All of it. He would be the Alpha King of Northumbria and he would rule the country and the people would rely on him and he would be expected to make important decisions and oh, gods he wasn’t up to the task.

John thought he was going to be sick.

He looked blindly around the room, the panic in his chest belying the cheerful sunshine and happy shouts he could hear from outside. He wanted to put his head between his knees and take deep breaths. He wanted to go back to his carriage and leave. He wanted to forsake his crown and live as a soldier as James had once suggested the two of them could do. He wanted…

He wanted to have a place here, in the majesty of Marseille. He wanted to _deserve_ a place here and be worthy of everything that was being asked of him. He wanted to live up to the expectations everyone had for him. He wanted to _belong_. The idea of attaining that, however, was daunting.

“Prince John!” Stamford startled him as he hurried into the room, directing the servants with their luggage, a pitifully small amount since John hadn’t been allowed to take most of his belongings with him. His shabby things would have been out of place here anyway, he supposed.

“My!” Stamford spun around, not bothering to disguise his astonishment. He didn’t need to. “What a gorgeous room.”

“You should see the others.” John said weakly, and his chaperone gave him a searching look, picking up that something was wrong, but said nothing in front of the servants as a small host of them moved in and out of the rooms. John stood, needing something to do to work off his nervous energy which felt oppressive. He couldn’t just sit until the betrothal. That was still hours away. He was supposed to be resting after the days of travel, refreshing himself, but relaxing was the furthest thing from him mind. Maybe he would-

There was sudden shouting from the hallway, growing louder, accompanied by the sound of running feet.

“Is there something wrong?” John asked one of the maids, her arms full of John’s clothes, ready to be pressed before being put away. He moved to the door and stuck his head out, but couldn’t see anyone. The woman smiled at him, her eyes wide and innocent, but John saw her hesitate, faltering before she replied.

“Of course nothing is wrong, sir.”

“Well...it’s just. There’s shouting.” John motioned to the still open door where the sound of a ruckus could distantly be heard again, the slamming of doors punctuating a few of the yells. She frowned, bemused, as if she were unable to hear the noise, but her eyes flicked nervously.

“Whatever do you mean, Your Highness?”

At that moment, a servant ran past John’s room in the corridor, looking harried and loudly calling out for someone.

“Abby! Abby! He wasn’t in the guest wing, I’ve already looked! He’s running and hiding from us- that’s got to be the only explanation…”

John and Stamford rushed to the door and looked out into the corridor to see what was happening. A few maids were gathered down the hall from them, wringing their hands and speaking quickly to each other, looking frightened.

“Are you alright?” John called, stepping out into the hallway because clearly something was wrong and if he could, he wanted to help.

The maids turned to him with a startled gasp, eyes widening and dropping into curtsies, looking even more discomfited. If such a thing were possible.

“Is everything alright?” John asked again, and the women exchanged a look.

“Forgive us, Your Highness.” One of the maids said, grabbing her friend’s hand and pulling her away from John. He narrowed his eyes. “We didn’t mean to intrude on your rest. If it pleases you, we’ll leave you in peace. You won’t be disturbed again, Your Highness.”

And before John could stop them, before he could say another word, they were gone in a flurry of curtsies, their skirts whipping around the end of the hallway. John heard them break into a run as soon as they were out of sight.

What the fuck?

Stamford shrugged, just as confused as John. “A bit odd, isn’t it?”

“Very.” John entered his rooms in time to see the servants attending him exchanging nervous glances.

“What’s going on?” He put as much authority into his voice as he could, and one of the maids winced.

“If it pleases you, Your Highness-” She began hesitantly but John cut her off. He was tired of their games.

“No. _It will please me_ to know what is going on. Right now.”

Everyone avoided his gaze, shifting nervously, the sounds of distant doors slamming pervading the silence. John crossed his arms, waiting, his impatience rising with every passing second and something of it must have shown on his face because one of the maids hurriedly stepped forward.

“Well. As it happens, Your Highness,” She began confidently, her finger raised, then met John’s angry gaze...and floundered, her mouth open but suddenly unable to speak, the finger that was still raised shaking. She darted a pleading look to one of the other servants who gave John a weak smile.

“It’s only that we seem to have misplaced something this morning, sir. But I’m sure it will be found soon, Your Highness.” She nodded positively and the other servants murmured their quick agreement.

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Any minute now, Your Highness.”

“Can’t be much longer, sir.”

John looked from one to the other, then back into the corridor where he could still hear raised voices. He thought of the panic on the maids’ faces and the uneasiness of these servants. He frowned.

“And what’s gone missing?”

It was clearly the question they hadn’t wanted him to ask. Another look was exchanged between them, lips drawn tight in disapproval, and they stayed silent. John was just starting to think he actually wouldn’t get an answer from them when the oldest maid stepped forward, the grey bun on her head trembling but with chin thrust out confidently.

“Prince Sherlock, Your Highness.” 

“Sorry. What?”

“You asked what had gone missing, sir. It is...Crown Prince Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been told that the correct form of address for Sherlock and Mycroft would be "Your Highness" and that "Your Majesty" would be reserved for their parents.
> 
> ALSO: Since Sherlock is the one who will inherit the throne, he should be the Crown Prince and Mycroft would only be the Prince.  
> Thanks to skybluedays for letting me know!


	5. Chapter 5

The entire palace at Marseille was in uproar from top to bottom as servants called out to one another anxiously, rushing about in a complete panic like ants in an overturned anthill. Anyone who wasn’t busy finishing the preparations for the betrothal ceremony in the Great Hall had been pressed into joining the chaos and moved with urgency to complete their delegated task. Every floor echoed with raised voices, the running of feet, and the occasional squeal as maids surprised each other going into and out of rooms in their desperate search. Servants gathered in small groups here and there, whispering, their tones fearful.

“Have you found him?”

“Where could he be? Melinda says she’s checked the attics-"

“ _All_ of the attics? Even the northwest corner? He has a bolt hole there, behind some trunks.”

“I’ll check again!”

“They said the Queen is angry.”

“Of course she’s angry. The Crown Prince running off like he’s done…”

“I heard the Queen tell Bridgette when I was above stairs earlier that she wasn’t surprised the Crown Prince had cracked under the strain- him being Omega and everything. Said she’d been expecting it.”

“He’s so delicate. Tiny. You’ve seen him- of course he would be upset at meeting an _Alpha_ -”

"They've kept him too sheltered his entire life! How many actual Alphas has the Crown Prince even seen?"

“But they should have prepared him for this! He should have known what to expect- and today of all days, someone should have been watching him at all times.”

“The Prince is a Beta. Where was he? It’s his job to protect his little Omega brother. Or even better, there should have been an Alpha there to rein him in.”

“It’s the only right way to take care of us Omegas, with an Alpha. Gives us comfort-”

“Exactly! I understand why the Crown Prince ran away. It would be _so_ upsetting, meeting an Alpha and knowing that one day you’ll be on their knot….and knowing that they know it too. You can see it in their eyes. The way they look at you."

"How humiliating.”

“I almost ran out of my own wedding last Spring, you remember, when I married Karl. It all got to be too much, the idea of it, but he was there with a firm hand, steady and sure. That’s what an Alpha’s good for...and it wasn’t so bad, all that came afterwards…”

“Omegas are much too flighty to be left on their own! Especially the Crown Prince. In my day, you didn’t see these unbonded Omegas running hither and yon by themselves. It wasn’t decent, and I don’t think it’s decent now. They were escorted everywhere and never let out of anyone’s sight until they were properly bonded. I wish Her Majesty would bring back the old ways.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t already. Maybe this escapade today with the Crown Prince will make her reconsider.”

“Oh, go blow it up your arse! Omegas don’t need fucking chaperones-"

“They do-"

“This complaining isn’t helping anything! I’m going to check the kitchens!”

“Well, I never!”

* * *

 

“Where is he?”

“Devin thinks he’s running from us, one place to another, always ahead and I’m starting to suspect.”

“Have the grounds been searched?”

“Yes, just an hour ago.”

“Go check again!”

“He could be anywhere!”

“Has anyone visited the stables? You know he loves the horses.”

“Not there, already looked.”

“What did Mrs. Hudson say? Does she know where he’s gone?”

“She says she doesn’t, but she’s an Omega. You can’t trust her because you know they protect each other.”

“ _Ridiculous_. This is more important than foolish camaraderie! The Scottish delegation are already here. There weren’t many of them- only a handful of Dukes, a few retainers- and I saw them take the Prince upstairs.”

“There ceremony is in less than two hours.”

“I heard them say that Prince Mycroft is furious.”

There was a dramatic pause among the group of servants as they each absorbed the inherent dread of that single statement. No one wanted the Queen angry, true- but anyone who had been on the receiving end of Prince Mycroft’s anger never forgot it. Ever.

“Oh, gods.” One of the maids bleated and another put her arm around her shoulders, shushing her.

“Let’s think! Where else could he be? There’s only so many places a little boy can hide!”

“The barracks were searched this morning-”

“I’ll go check again!”

“I’ll check the Great Hall. He might have snuck inside to see the displays.”

“I’ve already looked but check again- if he is running from us…”

“I heard that Prince Mycroft called for Captain Lestrade, but I don’t see what he will be able to do. He’s just Captain of the Guard.”

“He’s an _Alpha_.” One of the maids sighed in relief. “He’ll have the Crown Prince found in no time. Alphas are so good at taking charge like that. Thank goodness the Prince sent for him.”

“Wish the Captain would take charge of _me_ , if you understand my meaning.” Her friend elbowed her, raising her eyebrows suggestively and they both blushed, giggling. “Now, that’s an Alpha whose knot I wouldn’t mind being on-”

“Shocking language! Go, all of you! You’re meant to be finding the Crown Prince, not discussing such improper things!” The matron’s scolding was effective...until the Omegas maids were out of her sight. They then burst into raucous, shrieking laughter, skipping down the hall and clinging to each other as they continued their salacious conversation about the Captain.

* * *

“Bethany took the Alpha Prince upstairs to his rooms to rest before the ceremony. They’re trying to keep him out of the way until the Crown Prince is found.”

“But...but what will happen if the Alpha Prince finds out his mate isn’t there to meet him? That he’s hiding from him?”

“The entire betrothal will be soured. I wouldn’t doubt if they left tonight, the whole lot of them.”

“Good riddance. I never liked Scottish accents anyway. And they're uncouth. They _smell_."

“Prince Mycroft will be angry for weeks.”

“Months.”

“The Alpha Prince may very well cause a scene…”

“I can’t blame him. How would you feel, eh? Coming all this way and then a jumped-up little Omega making a fool of you in front of the whole country?”

“You’re speaking of the _Crown Prince_ -”

“I know who I’m speaking of!” The manservant snapped. “He’s the reason we’ve been at this bloody search the last hour! And if his Alpha leaves Marseille I, for one, won’t be blaming him.”

* * *

 

The Omega Crown Prince was hiding from him- literally hiding from him- because he was that scared of meeting John.

John sat with his head in his hands, staring sightlessly at the carpet beneath his feet. Outside of the closed bedroom door, he could hear Stamford talking quietly to the handful of royalty which had traveled with him, explaining the situation to them. Someone laughed, a derisive snort, and John clenched his jaw, anger sparking into a simmering burn. He didn’t know if they were laughing at him, or the Omega Crown Prince. At the moment, he didn’t know which would have made him angrier.

The Omega was so frightened he was literally hiding from him.

Godsfuckingdamn.

And the way the servants had _looked_ at him when John had asked if there was anything he could do to help! It was as if John had asked to knot the Omega Crown Prince that very afternoon, the way they had carried on.

_“Oh no, Your Highness!”_

_“There’s no need for that, sir!”_

_“Really, Your Highness! You couldn’t!”_

_“He’s just a little boy, sir-”_

_“The betrothal isn’t final, Your Highness, and it would be entirely improper for you to molest him once he is found.”_

Well. They hadn’t actually _said_ that last part, but it had been heavily implied.

John closed his eyes, sighing. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t want to be at Marseille terrorizing a little boy and being laughed at. He didn’t want to be in Northumbria anymore, even if they were the richest kingdom on the continent and had gold-paved streets. He wanted to go home...but...he couldn’t go back to Scotland.

The Omega was hiding from him.

What could he do?

John shook himself angrily, growling in frustration beneath his breath. He was acting stupid. He needed to stop whining and think of a plan. He wasn’t a fucking child. He couldn’t go back home. That option was right out. He had to remain right where he was because he didn’t doubt that his father would carry out his threats if John failed in Northumbria.

So, he would do what his mother had taught him to do, what he had done all his life: He would make the best out of a bad situation.

Decision made, John straightened, leaning his head back while he thought of his plan. _If_ the Omega was found, and _if_ he wasn’t too scared, and _if_ the betrothal ceremony went forward, and _if_ John were actually introduced to the little boy, he would be the best behaved Alpha possible.

He knew how- just suppress every reaction and instinct he had and any possible outward sign of his personality, John thought glumly. Be non-threatening. All smiles. He wouldn’t scowl once. Keep his eyes lowered. He would stand where he was supposed to, and bow how he was supposed to, and not say a godsdamn word because if he did the little Omega would probably pass out. In front of the entire Court.

John put his head back in his hands.

Godsfuckingdamn.

* * *

 

“I heard the Alpha Prince wanted to join in the search for the Crown Prince, and that he was rather put out when he wasn’t allowed. But really! What did he expect? To be allowed, as an unbonded Alpha, to chase about the palace looking for the Omega Crown Prince?”

“It’s the Alpha side of him. He knows his mate is close and wants to find him, but the chase would have been too exciting for him. It’s always that way for Alphas. Can you imagine what would have happened when he found the Crown Prince?” The maid tittered and a few surrounding her hid their blushes behind their hands.

“Not decent! It’s what I’ve said all along.”

“Well, if he had done, at least we’d know that the betrothal would still go forward. He wouldn’t be able to walk out after doing something like that.”

“We don’t need to think about that. The betrothal will still go forward if we could just find him…”

* * *

 

Sherlock held his breath until the last group of servants dispersed, scattering in different directions as they continued their search for him. He listened to their retreating footsteps, waiting until he thought the coast was clear before poking his head out of the wardrobe. It had been dusty- he hadn’t expected that when he lunged inside, and his nose stung with the need to sneeze, which he’d ruthlessly suppressed the last few minutes. He scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand as he thought of where he could go that was safe.

Godsdammit. Why was everyone panicking? He just wanted a moment to himself. To be able to sodding _think_ , Sherlock frowned angrily. That was all. Everyone was being stupid, acting as if he had ran away from Marseille for good, abandoning his family and leaving the stupid sodding Alpha Prince at the proverbial altar.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he crept down a rarely used back staircase, the wooden slats narrow and refreshingly cool air rushing up at him from the depths of the palace. So the Alpha Prince wanted to join in the search for him, did he? Well. The Alpha Prince could _try_ and catch him. Sherlock wouldn’t mind. Mycroft had taught him how to kick an Alpha where it hurt and it was something Sherlock had always wanted to do. Just once, to see what it was like.

Thinking of Mycroft made Sherlock feel slightly guilty, and he stopped halfway down the stairs, torn. Maybe he should go back to his rooms. He could apologise to Mycroft and tell him what was wrong and then-

No. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be by himself. He had talked to Mycroft enough over the last few months and while his brother had been helpful, there was nothing Sherlock wanted to discuss with him now. There was nothing his brother could say to him to make him feel better and he just...he just…

He just wanted a moment to _think_.

Sherlock hurried the rest of the way down the stairs and flinging himself out of the passage into a rarely used part of the palace, his destination decided. The one place in the palace that no one else was allowed inside but himself and Mycroft. If Mycroft wanted to find him, truly wanted to, he would know exactly where to look.

Sherlock would be there waiting for him in the meantime.


	6. Chapter 6

Captain Greg Lestrade strode through the pandemonium in the palace, his helmet held beneath his arm as he dodged around servants who were all dressed in their very best. That morning, they had scrubbed their faces and neatly combed or plaited their hair, donning the starched uniforms which only came out on very special occasions and were meticulously taken care of, ready to make a good first impression on the delegation from Scotland. Ready to prove the superiority of Marseille to what was rumored as “backwater royalty.”

But now, the servants scampered about with red faces and nervous looks, hair trailing from their once neat braids and sweat marks marring the underarms of their clothes. Greg shook his head at all the ruckus over one missing little boy, even though he understood the servants’ anxiety: it would be extremely discourteous, not to mention embarrassing to everyone, if Sherlock was not found in time for the betrothal ceremony.

What the hell would they do, Greg wondered as he made his way down a broad hallway that was mercifully empty, if they didn’t manage to find Sherlock in time? Delay the ceremony as long as they could? Go ahead with the betrothal, the Crown Prince sight unseen? Stand and stare at the Alpha Prince from Scotland like a group of imbeciles who couldn’t keep track of one short, bratty 11-year-old?

Greg was sure the Prince had a plan- he always did- but no matter how Greg looked at it, the entire situation was a cock up from start to finish. He didn’t know how even the Prince could make this better.

Greg sighed, picking up his pace. He hadn’t seen the Prince yet, but Greg knew that he had been called to join in the search for Sherlock. That much was obvious. And he thought he might know where the little boy was.

His useless ceremonial sword tapped at his side with every step, boots echoing against the stones as he left the main area of the palace behind and entered more private quarters. Private and, therefore, mostly forgotten. He hurried down a set of broad stairs, his cape billowing behind and threatening to trip him. He growled, annoyed, fidgeting with the silly garb and grateful he wasn’t often ordered to wear it. But today, since it was a very special occasion, and since, as Captain of the Prince’s Guard, Greg would be standing close to both Princes during the ceremony, he had to look the part of a dashing Captain.

Greg hated dressing up. It made him feel like a performing bear. Give him his every day, standard-issue uniform, please and thanks. At least with that uniform he was allowed to wear a real sword.

He turned a corner and spied the large, ornate door set midway down the hall. No one was around and when he tried the doorknob, it was unlocked. He was almost positive that if the Prince had joined in the search for Sherlock, he had already checked here; but Greg strongly suspected that Sherlock was outmaneuvering them in the search, finding new hiding spots whenever they got too close. There was only one exit from this room, though, and since the door was unlocked (which in itself instantly aroused suspicion), Greg slipped inside.

The royal conservatory had been built a long time ago, as a present from a former Alpha King to his Omega Consort, and had fallen into disrepair and neglect under the current Queen, who preferred her outdoor gardens. She would have demolished the conservatory altogether, but as a small boy, Prince Mycroft had taken an interest in it. Indulged by his mother since he was, at the time, her beloved only child, he had been allowed to restore the building as he pleased.

The result was a thing of astonishing beauty.

It had taken Mycroft _years_ to repair the conservatory. Many of the glass windows had been broken or missing and the stone archways crumbling. Dead plants and bugs and vines had been everywhere, and all of the statues were gone, taken to other, better, prettier parts of the palace. The small pool where fish were once kept were grown over with moss and mold, the fish long dead and leaving behind their skeletons- which did not help the gloomy atmosphere of the ruins. But Mycroft had envisioned what the conservatory could be, and had overseen the changes personally, deciding what should be planted, where and when, the placement of fountains, benches, and archways with trailing vines, hidden alcoves, choosing the particular sort of trees and flowers he wanted, as well as fruits and fish and...

The restoration of the conservatory had been done by a child, an intelligent child, but a child nonetheless, and there was something whimsical and startlingly romantic about the place.

Greg thought the Mycroft of today- the mature Ice Prince of Northumbria- would have restored the conservatory with a keen eye to detail and what was strictly aesthetically pleasing. Neat patches of flowers, ordered and separated, and not allowed to mingle. Green rows of hedges artfully arranged in the traditional style. Statues made by the current masters depicting boring subjects. Trailing vines which would be burned out when they encroached past their defined boundaries. Ordinary fish in the pools. No hidden alcoves. No wasteful fountains.

Mycroft the child had wanted color. Enchantment. A fantasy garden to lose himself in. He had wanted a place which looked as if the fairies from his storybooks consorted there, dancing in the moonlight when no one could see them.

There were riots of flowers everywhere. All around. No matter which way a person turned, their eyes were treated to an explosion of vibrant colors which seemed to pulse with vitality. Fountains burbled, spitting out shining waters and filling the air with tinkling music. There were hidden niches concealed in the shrubbery which only Mycroft knew the location of and oddly shaped, sparkling pools dotted the conservatory where fish darted, their brilliant scales flashing in the sun. There were trees that, while more stunted than what was in nature, soared above one’s head, toward the glass panels of the ceiling itself. It was a lovely garden. A thing of absolute, uncontested beauty.

But when Greg looked at the conservatory, there seemed to be a melancholy, almost wistful quality about it. Which was silly. Just him being mawkish. He was no poet or philosopher- he was a soldier. He didn’t sit and reason and ponder, or think great, convoluted thoughts, unless it had to do with military strategy...and it was only in the past year that he had even started to think on it but…

The entire garden seemed like a dream from long ago which had never came to be, living on beneath glass, preserved where it could be nurtured and examined and enjoyed, but never actually allowed to be free. Like the plants themselves. When Greg looked at the conservatory, he knew he was seeing something special and, at the same time, something very, very sad. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t give himself time to parse it out either. He didn’t need to. He was Captain of the Prince’s Guard, not a gardener or a philosopher.

Still.

The thought lingered and that day, when he stepped inside, overwhelmed by the sheer size and splendor of the place as he always was, the idea niggled at him again, wanting to be contemplated. He ignored it.

Greg breathed in the musty smell of earth, mixed with the sweetness of flowers, which was intrinsic to all conservatories- even the plain ones- and felt peaceful despite the stress of the day. The glass roof soared above him, creating a large open area in the sky, and the entire enclosure was hundreds of feet long. More than enough space for a little boy to lose himself in. A stone pathway meandered through the garden, looping here and there, and covering the entirety of it. Greg set out on it, knowing that if Sherlock were in the conservatory at all, this was the best way to find him. Besides, Greg didn’t want to trample over anything or ruin it with his boots.

Sunlight spilled down from above, warming him as he walked and dappling everything around with light. It was hard to believe that they weren’t actually outside in one of the Queen’s gardens. Greg assumed someone had already checked those. He wasn’t brave enough- or foolish- to suggest it himself. He was not the Queen’s favorite person. If Greg thought the Prince treated him coldly, it was nothing to the disinterested hostility the Queen regarded him with.

It rankled, getting under Greg’s skin, because he had given them nothing- absolutely fucking _nothing_ \- but his very best. For years. He had given the Holmes’, the Prince in particular, all of his dedication, loyalty, and bravery. He had been a friend to him when he needed one. He had served him faithfully, following him to the ends of the earth and back. Greg had fought for and protected him. He had kept his secret. He was prepared to even lay down his life for him and he had accomplished all that had been asked of him, and more. More. Always so much more.

None of that mattered, though. The Prince, Greg knew, didn’t care. He took all of Greg’s service and loyalty as his due, without any indication of gratitude.

He could leave.

The thought had crossed Greg’s mind a few times in the past week. All royals were self-centered and selfish. It was just the way they were. Greg knew that. But this problem of his was bigger than the Prince being an entitled dick and Greg getting his feelings hurt and running away from his harsh words.

Greg had thought of leaving Northumbria before, when the Prince had been particularly insufferable, but he’d never given it serious thought until after his and Mycroft’s….conversation in the barracks. Seeing Mycroft cower away from him and then sneer at Greg’s apology, hurling his most hateful words and telling Greg that he was utterly disgusted by him, that he was revolted with Greg’s scent and everything they had done. He never wanted Greg to touch him. Ever again.

It had been the the final disrespect. The last insult Greg could stand. He was done. The decision held its own relief once he’d actually decided it...but for some reason it just made him fucking tired.

Because why should he stay and torture himself over an Omega Prince who hated him? An Omega Prince who resented the help Greg had freely given him, without extorting his family for money to keep quiet about his secret? Helping the Prince without rancor, with as much respect and decency as Greg had been able to muster? The same Prince who spurned Greg’s friendliness at every opportunity with cold disregard and unwavering disinterest? Why should be continue to serve a Prince who refused to forgive him, choosing instead to hold Greg in eternal contempt for actions the Prince himself was to blame for, and who snarled at Greg to never touch him again? And how could Greg continue to serve a Queen who, he knew, wished he were either gone or dead?

It was pointless. He should leave Northumbria. The sooner the better.

Greg sighed, inhaling the cloying scent of flowers, and passed under an archway where vines trailed, brushing over his head. His boots thudded across a small wooden bridge which overlooked a little pool. Fish swam, fluttering in and out of the sun, catching Greg’s eye. A garden beneath glass. Nurtured and, at the same time, forcefully stifled. The thought made his chest hurt. Greg paused on the bridge, absently watching the fish cavort, waiting for the feeling to pass.

He should leave Northumbria. Soon.

“Sherlock? I know you’re in here.” He called out, continuing on his way. “Sherlock?” Little boys who hid from people and worried their older brother didn’t deserve the use of their honorific. “Sherlock?”

Maybe he was asking for too much from Mycroft. He was a Prince of Northumbria. Mycroft was what he had been made, molded, and shaped to be, and for Greg to expect him to behave in a way different from the one he’d been taught wasn’t very realistic.

But that wasn’t completely true.

Greg had gotten to see another side of Mycroft last year, while they were staying at The Queen’s Head as Greg helped Mycroft through his heat. He had glimpsed the private side of Mycroft which no one ever got to see, except Sherlock, and Mycroft with his guard down was...nice. He was funny. Warm. Greg remembered the way they had talked over breakfast the morning after the fact, Mycroft forthcoming and treating Greg like an equal because he didn’t have to pretend anymore. Relaxed in a way he never was, with his personality shining through which wasn’t arrogant at all. Superior, perhaps, because Mycroft knew he was smart and knew his own worth as a person, but he was also considerate, not snapping his fingers and ordering Greg to knot him while looking down his nose at him. Even when it had been obvious that Mycroft was uncomfortable with heat, he had been loathe to ask something so personal from Greg, not accepting it until Greg himself offered. Hesitant in his unease, with fireworks of freckles across his pale skin and green eyes widening as Greg kissed him, responding with innocent enthusiasm…

Greg had finally seen Mycroft as _human_. Someone who wasn’t just an annoying brat but a young man who was foible, who had faults and weaknesses and the shyest, prettiest damn smile Greg had ever seen. And Mycroft was selfless. Gods above, he was so fucking selfless. Even before Mycroft’s heat, Greg had grudgingly admired the Prince for his intelligence and drive, his willpower and the straightforward way he approached problems. He had known the Prince worked tirelessly for the good of the kingdom, but Greg could never have guessed at the immense personal sacrifice Mycroft had given for the safety of his little brother. The little brother he clearly loved with a tender affection, his eyes softening every time he said his name in a way that Greg had suddenly been envious of, realizing that Mycroft’s devotion, while rarely bestowed, was a prize beyond value.

So no, Greg hadn’t fallen in love with Mycroft because he was an Omega and Greg had gotten to knot him. Greg had fallen in love with Mycroft because...because….

He should leave Northumbria.

There were other places Greg could go, other sovereigns he could serve. Being away from the Prince would be difficult at first, considering the affection Greg felt for him- although why he still thought he was in love with the bastard was a fucking mystery- but Greg knew it would fade if he put distance between them. Then maybe, he could find another Omega to love. Someone sweet and kind and they could bond. Possibly carve out a little bit of happiness for himself with a comfortable home and a loving mate with a few children. He knew it would have to be somewhere else, though. There was no happiness for him in Northumbria.

“Sherlock? You need to come out now.” There was no answer except for the distant tinkling of a fountain. Greg knew why Sherlock would have chosen this place to hide before the ceremony. There were no noises. Nothing to intrude. Pleasant sights no matter where one looked. A person could actually hear themselves think, here in the muffled quiet, alone with their thoughts. It was nice.

Greg turned a curve in the path and suddenly...there he was.

Sherlock was sat further up the path on a stone bench, his boots pulled off and thrown to the side, bare feet dangling above the ground as he carefully wove together a few vines he had picked.

“Sherlock.” Greg didn’t want to startle him even though he was sure Sherlock had heard him enter the conservatory. He had certainly heard Greg calling for him, but had instead stayed sat on his bench,waiting to be found. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock glanced up from his vines. He was already dressed for the ceremony, which was a relief. Greg knew how long it took to dress in the elaborate outfits the Princes were required to wear, and if Sherlock hadn’t been ready, they would certainly have had to move the ceremony back a few hours. But he was, thank the gods, and his trousers and tunic were still neatly laced and tied. His riot of black curls, looking as soft as silk, were clean and free of the usual bits of hay or dirt, framing Sherlock’s face and giving him an angelic look. Greg knew it was at least partially a ruse: Sherlock had the sharpest tongue and meanest temper of anyone Greg had ever known...but he also had one of the softest, kindest hearts imaginable. And gods help him, but Greg loved him. _Fiercely_. He would miss Sherlock when he eventually left.

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock shrugged, fingers working over the vines, moving them in and out at a steady pace, giving the task his full attention. Greg regarded him for a moment.

“The delegation from Scotland have arrived.”

No response.

“In case you’ve forgotten, the betrothal ceremony is in another hour. _Your_ betrothal ceremony.”

“I know it’s _my_ betrothal ceremony.” Sherlock snapped, letting Greg know he was an idiot without actually saying the words. The similarity with his older brother, coupled with a childlike cuteness that Mycroft didn’t have, was enough to make Greg to grin.

“Well, if you know that, then what are you doing hiding in here?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m...thinking.”

“Mm.” Greg sat down on the bench with a sigh. “May I ask what you’re thinking about?”

“No.”

“All right.”

“I’ll come out in a bit. I didn’t mean to stay gone for so long and I’m not trying to ruin the ceremony. Mycroft's worked too hard for me to just throw it all away. But I needed a moment to myself.”

Greg nodded, feeling a stab of compassion because for all that Sherlock was smart and clever and well-educated with a bigger vocabulary than most everyone, he was also just a little boy. He was only 11 and had a lot (and Greg meant a lot) of maturing to do. All the attention and pressure from the betrothal was enough to make anyone want to go and hide among the flowers. Greg leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees, letting himself get a little angry at the unfairness of it all. Mycroft wasn’t the only one burdened with the Queen’s plan. Sherlock was as well, just in different ways. He knew it was all up to him to marry the Alpha who was chosen for him, and that he would have to make do and try to be happy with his life no matter how much he disliked it. Even if he hated the Alpha, Sherlock would be tied to him the rest of his life, for the good of the country. It was a terrible burden to give a child, even if that child _was_ the Crown Prince of Northumbria.

Greg let Sherlock sit quietly for a while, not saying a word and just enjoying the serenity of the conservatory. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes and relaxing while Sherlock’s fingers rushed over the vines in a soothing rhythm.

“Greg?”

“Hm?”

“I just realized this morning…” Sherlock began quietly. “That I’ll actually be getting married one day.”

Greg grunted. He knew there was more.

“And one day...I’ll have a baby. An heir for the kingdom. I’ll have to have a baby, even if I don’t want to. I don’t have a choice about it, and when I realized that...it was all suddenly just…too much.”

“You don’t need to worry about that-”

Sherlock cut Greg off with a snarl. “I’m tired of everyone telling me not to worry about things! Don’t worry about this, Sherlock. Don’t worry about that, Sherlock. That’s still years and years away, Sherlock. Don’t rush into the future. Just don’t think about it. You’re too young. You’ll understand when you’re older. I’ll explain it another time.” He threw his vines down, balling his hands into fists and almost vibrating with anger. “I don’t _care_ if I’m not supposed to be thinking about it or worrying about it right now _because I am_!”

He shouted the last few words and they didn’t echo, sounding odd in the hushed silence of the conservatory. Sherlock was breathing hard, labored and hitching in a telling way. Greg kept his eyes closed to give him a semblance of privacy while he got himself under control.

“If I’m being asked to do this.” Sherlock continued once he’d calmed down. “If I’m being betrothed to a sodding Alpha who I will have to marry one day and let them….let them... _do that_ to me, I should have my questions answered. Honestly. All of them.”

“I agree.” Greg opened his eyes and it was worth the risk to see the look of complete surprise on Sherlock’s blotchy face.

“Oh. You.” He blinked, confused. “You _agree_?”

“Yes. I do. Listen, I’m not saying I don’t agree with everything your brother- and I assume it’s been the Prince saying all that. Sounds like him….Anyway. It’s not as if I don’t agree with his saying that you’re too young to be thinking about those sorts of things. _But_.” Greg held up a hand when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. “All of your questions are relevant. You made a good point. A lot is being asked of you, even if it’s not going to be happening right now. It will be eventually, right? You’re getting betrothed. You’ll be getting married. You’ll have a baby. One day.” He conceded. “You should know everything.”

Sherlock cut his eyes at Greg. It was so reminiscent of the expression Mycroft used to give Greg when he was being sly and mischievous (such as the morning they had woken up in bed together, Mycroft innocently asking Greg if he had much experience with Omegas) that Greg’s chest started hurting again and he had to look away.

“Would _you_ answer my questions, if I asked you?”

Oh gods. How the hell had he not seen this coming? “I dunno.” Greg tried to stall. “Your brother would probably kill me.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I really think he might.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Mycroft thinks very highly of you. He told me that he trusts you with his life.” Sherlock glanced at Greg from the corners of his eyes, then away, his cheeks coloring. “He said that...He told me that _last year_...you treated him very kindly.” Sherlock finished significantly while Greg reeled, completely speechless. He didn’t know what to be more surprised at: that Mycroft had told his little brother about spending his heat with Greg, or Mycroft telling Sherlock that Greg had treated him kindly. Probably the last bit, especially considering what Mycroft had said to Greg a few days ago. Greg supposed that if Sherlock had been asking questions, worried, Mycroft had spun his little brother a good story to allay some of his fears.

That had to have been it.

“Well. I don’t know...Um. I guess...I tried.” Greg managed through his astonishment, his face heating with color, and either Sherlock had embarrassed himself by revealing what Mycroft told him, or realized he’d thoroughly embarrassed Greg, because he didn’t say another word about it. They lapsed into silence which, for a long time, was broken only by the rush of water from the fountains. Sherlock was the first to recover, naturally, and turned on the bench to face Greg again.

“Greg?”

“Yes?”

“Mummy said you’ve sworn vows to Mycroft.”

“Yes.”

“What sorts of vows?”

“Different things.”

“Like what?”

“Well. Different things. I swore to protect, honor, and obey the Prince, in all areas of life. To wholly dedicate myself to him and live a life that not only honored him, but didn’t bring him shame. Serve him, always, to the best of my ability. Defend him. Respect him. To treat his life as if it were my own.” Greg remembered kneeling in front of a much younger Mycroft- Mycroft with his open, expressive face and ridiculously curly red hair- and swearing to him, repeating the words he had memorized. He had meant every word, sincerely, and from the bottom of his heart.

None of that had changed. It was just the new emotions attached to the vows that Greg now found difficult.

“Did you mean them?” Sherlock asked innocently, wholly without reproach, and Greg supposed that was an honest question. Most people didn’t take their vows very seriously, or to the degree that Greg did, but those were the Alphas who, in Greg’s opinion, had no honor. Then again, maybe Greg had too much honor.

“Yes, Sherlock. I meant every word.”

Sherlock nodded, but he still looked troubled. “Greg?”

“Yes?”

Sherlock hesitated, knotted his fingers in his lap. “Would you help Mycroft? If you could?”

“Of course.” Greg didn’t even have to think about it. “I would give my life for him.”

“No, I know that. You said that was one of your vows. But...What if Mycroft needed help with something that you didn’t like? Or something that you didn’t actually want to do, but Mycroft needed you to do it?”

Like last year, Greg wondered sardonically. “That would have no precedence, Sherlock. It doesn’t matter what I think or feel about the situation. I would do anything to help your brother.”

“Because of your vows?”

Greg turned at Sherlock’s soft question, narrowing his eyes. “What’s this all about?”

Sherlock shrugged, stooping to pick up his vines where he had thrown them earlier and Greg watched as he started weaving them together again with quick movements. Why was Sherlock suddenly so interested in his vows? Greg had been Captain of the Prince’s Guard for five years and in that entire time, Sherlock had never once cared to ask about his vows or why Greg served his brother.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” He asked. Sherlock didn’t look up from his vines.

“What makes you think something is wrong?”

Greg didn’t even dignify that with a response. He gave Sherlock a weighty silence which he was sure had none of the scorn Mycroft or Sherlock could have imbued it with, but he tried.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you.” Sherlock finally said and Greg considered this new information. All things about the Prince were officially his business. Everything. For Sherlock to be unable to tell Greg, the Captain who was in charge of protecting Mycroft what was wrong…it was odd and didn’t sit well with Greg.

The last few days, he had been unable to stop himself thinking of the Prince and the bruise covering his cheek. How Mycroft had shown up, unannounced, to Greg’s bedroom in the barracks, still smelling strongly of heat. He had not been in heat then, but Greg remembered thinking the Prince had only just came out of it…

There was only one explanation he could think of: someone had been with the Prince during his last heat. Someone had been with him, close enough to harm him, hit him hard enough to leave a bruise. Greg remembered the odd way the Prince had held himself, the way he had walked. What else had that person done to him? Greg wished he’d put it together that morning, pressed Mycroft more to find out what was wrong, and gotten to the bottom of the situation. It wasn’t his business who Mycroft shared his heats with, and if he had found another Alpha...Well. That was fine. It was none of Greg’s business. But the idea of someone hurting Mycroft during his heat, when he was already vulnerable, and then for Sherlock to not able to tell him, angered Greg. It was his responsibility to protect the Prince. How was he to protect the Prince if he was not told things and kept in the dark about what was taking place?

What if Mycroft _had_ wanted to tell Greg? Had that been why he came to Greg’s room? For protection? Wanting Greg’s help but was then disgusted by Greg’s lewd display of having spent a heat with an Omega in the city? Greg realized he was tensed, as if he were ready for a fight, and he forced himself to relax his muscles which were tightly bunched. He resettled himself on the bench, unclenching his fists as he took a deep, deep breath.

“Sherlock?” He asked. “Does this have anything to do with the bruise on the Prince’s face?”

Sherlock looked up from his vines, regarding him steadily, and Greg already knew the answer. “Yes. But I can’t tell you.”

Greg clenched his jaw as fresh anger churned in his gut. He had to remember to calm himself again because Sherlock was now watching him carefully, his eyes narrowed keenly. It was his observation face, the one he always got when there was an interesting problem he was trying to work out. Greg tried to give him a reassuring smile.

“I would do anything for your brother, Sherlock. I do wish you could tell me what was wrong. I feel like it might be something I need to know, but I won’t ask you to betray your brother’s trust but...If he ever needs me- or you think that he does, or that some harm may come to him- get me. Immediately. It doesn’t matter when, any time, day or night. Send for me and I’ll be there right away. All right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And that goes for you too.” Greg continued. “If you ever need me, I’ll be there. Just ask.”

Sherlock’s shy but pleased smile brightened his face and Greg was glad he’d added that onto the end. He hadn’t thought he would because in another year or so Sherlock would have his own Guard, and his own Captain who would protect him, but it was worth it to see Sherlock look so pleased at Greg’s attention.

“Getting back to what you were saying earlier...your having to produce an heir one day…”

Sherlock’s smile melted away, and he noticeably perked up, waiting for any information that would help.

“You’ll protect me from your brother, right?”

“I promise.”

Greg rolled his eyes. He didn’t believe him, but continued anyway. “All right. Let’s say that you have to provide an heir. At least one. It can’t be avoided, right?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but nodded, following along.

“After that, there are ways to prevent further pregnancies. They’re very discreet and easily hidden. Your Alpha wouldn’t even have to know you were using them if you were clever enough.”

It was duplicitous behavior and not the best advice to offer Sherlock right before he entered a fledgling relationship with his future husband, but if it would make him feel better to have the knowledge at his disposal, then Greg would tell Sherlock anything he sodding wanted to know.

“What are they?”

“Herbs. Parsley. Mugwort. Pennyroyal. Choose one- not all of them, or you’ll end up killing yourself- and mix it in hot tea before a heat. Supposedly, they are very effective. Drink it once a day through your heat for extra potency-”

“I think we have all those here!” Sherlock said excitedly, eyes sparkling. “I know the Pennyroyal is in the west corner and the parsley is kept in the kitchen greenhouses. No one would ever have to know-”

“Sherlock...” Greg took Sherlock’s hand and turned the little boy around. “Wait. Keep in mind that your brother has scoured the world searching for the perfect Alpha for you. I know, because I’ve been with him all the fucking way.” He said wryly. “I trust your brother. If Prince Mycroft thinks you will prefer John Watson and that the two of you can suit, if he believes that, out of everyone else he’s seen, that you may be happy with John Watson...I’d trust him. The Prince is smart and he loves you. Very much.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but looked pleased. “I know he does. It’s just...what if he’s wrong?”

“ _Mycroft Holmes_ , Prince of Northumbria be _wrong_?” Greg asked incredulously, and Sherlock gave him a wobbly smile, gripping his hand tighter. “Prince Mycroft has never been wrong in his life!”

“But what if he’s wrong now? What if John Watson hates me? What if he’s like other Alphas and he’s horrible and controlling and hurts me?”

“No one in this entire palace would let him hurt you.” Greg said sternly. “I would kill him myself if he even tried.” He winced, realizing what he’d just said. Considering that the Alpha in question would one day be Greg’s king (unless he really did leave), the words were very treasonous. People hung for less, but Sherlock gave Greg a mischievous smile. He loved doing things that weren’t allowed and Greg’s heart warmed.

“The other things? I’ve lived long enough to know that there are always unknowns in the world. Always, Sherlock. You can’t predict everything. You can _try_.” He raised his eyebrows significantly and Sherlock huffed. “But no matter how smart you are, you really can’t. You shouldn’t jump ahead and think that you already know how this will play out. Take your time. Who knows?” He shrugged. “You could fall in love with John Watson, and he could fall arse over elbow in love with you...but you won’t know unless you give it a chance. Just a small chance.”

Sherlock didn’t look entirely convinced, biting his lip, but Greg was done dispensing advice for the day. He pushed Sherlock away, ruffling his hair until Sherlock swatted at him, scowling.

“And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll kill him for you and you can pardon me afterwards.” Greg said cheekily because the idea of treason seemed to make Sherlock inordinately happy, like a naughty child who was doing something they knew they shouldn’t. Sherlock giggled, and Greg grinned, standing from the bench and straightening his godsdamn cape.

“Now come on. Your brother’s worried about you and I know that everyone fucking else is running rampant through the whole palace looking for you. Get your boots on and let’s - Prince Mycroft!”

Greg startled, his heart racing from the sudden shock of seeing the Prince hovering at the bend in the path, silently watching him. Greg dropped into his bow, the cape falling around him in folds. He straightened, studying Mycroft, and didn’t know who was more embarrassed: himself for his unmanly yelp on seeing the Prince...or Mycroft for being caught watching Greg and Sherlock for gods knew how long.

Greg wondered if the Prince had heard him planning to kill the future king.

Mycroft paused, visibly collecting himself, his cheeks stained with a red blush that threw his yellowed bruise into sharp, ugly relief. Greg eyed it with loathing while Mycroft’s gaze skipped past Greg to Sherlock, and Greg braced, expecting the Prince’s sternest tone of voice. Sherlock had misbehaved and the Prince’s lectures to his little brother were legendary.

Instead, Mycroft sounded subdued and infinitely sad. “I’ve been looking for you, Locky.”

Sherlock cast his eyes down, more affected by that simple, quietly spoken statement than a shout.

“Mrs. Hudson told me what upset you.” Mycroft strode forward and went to his knees in front of Sherlock on the bench, grasping Sherlock’s hands with both his own. “I’ve done the best I can for you, Locky. I promise I have. The Watsons need us more than we need them and King Watson needs to marry off his youngest to make a good match. He needs your dowry. Desperately. That meant I had leverage to use against him and gain everything I wanted for you, all the concessions I could possibly attain. I’ve done the best I could to secure you a good Alpha and a chance at happiness.”

“I know you have, My.” Sherlock murmured. Mycroft sighed, leaning forward and resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. He closed his eyes, looking pained. Greg turned away, embarrassed, realizing he was seeing something very intimate, but unable to leave until Mycroft dismissed him.

“You’re the most important thing to me. I would protect you from the entire world, if I could, Locky.” Mycroft said in a low, fervent voice. “I would protect you from all the ugly realities of what it means to wear a crown and the duties you have to bear. I would keep you from what it actually means to be royal Omega in an arranged marriage if it were possible. I would, and will, do everything in my power to protect you. Always. No matter what happens.”

They were silent and Greg risked a glance back. Sherlock’s eyes were closed as he scented his brother, running his cheek along Mycroft’s while Mycroft gently cradled the back of his head. Greg looked away again, a blush suffusing his cheeks at witnessing the intimacy of their private moment.

“You smell like Beta.” Sherlock complained, utterly disgusted, and Mycroft’s answering laugh, high and carefree and normal, real in a way that Greg hadn’t heard in ages, was wonderful.

“Well, you smell like spoiled brat.” Mycroft took a deep, snuffling inhale against Sherlock’s neck while his little brother writhed and tried to get away. “And wait. What’s that? I don’t think Mrs. Hudson did a good job bathing you. I can still smell horses-”

Sherlock shrieked, twisting to get away and Mycroft stood, letting him squirm off the bench and over to the side, still giggling. Mycroft gave him a fond smile.

“Get your boots on. Mrs. Hudson is waiting for you at the door. It’s almost time for the ceremony. Behave. Please?”

Sherlock scowled at being told what to do, tugging on his boots with sullen jerks, but he gave Mycroft a small smile, which was returned in full measure. Before Sherlock left, Mycroft cupped his cheek, rubbing their faces together.

“Please be good. For me?”

“I will, My. I won’t embarrass you.” Sherlock promised softly. “I love you.”

“You never embarrass me, and I love you more.” Mycroft gave Sherlock a little shove. “Be nice to Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock made a face, but trotted back along the path towards the door. Mycroft watched him go and Greg watched Mycroft. He stood at attention, waiting for his orders, unable to leave until he was dismissed by his Prince.

“Thank you for finding him, Captain.”

Greg was surprised. Mycroft’s voice was still normal. He hadn’t fallen back into the icy tones he usually spoke to him with. Greg supposed that finding Sherlock had garnered him a little leniency.

“It was no trouble, Your Highness.” He replied, and Mycroft smiled, still staring down the path.

“Yes, it was. But I thank you all the same.” He glanced at Greg from the corner of his eyes. “Would you mind remaining here for a moment, Captain? We don’t have long but there is something I need to discuss with you that cannot wait any longer.”

Strange. The Prince didn’t have to ask, he only had to command, but Greg replied all the same. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft paced away from him and Greg took the opportunity to unabashedly stare at him. Mycroft looked gorgeous. His long, coltish legs were tightly encased in trousers which were laced together up the sides and Greg had a sudden vision of laying Mycroft out on a bed, starting at his ankle, and unlacing those ties one at a time, kissing every bit of new skin he revealed, until he was at Mycroft’s hip...and then starting on the next leg. The front of Mycroft’s trousers were laced together as well, and Greg imagined finishing with his legs and finally, gods finally, getting to pluck at those as well, baring Mycroft completely so Greg could taste him with his mouth-

Greg forced himself to look away from Mycroft, berating himself. Your touch disgusts him. Don’t you think you’ve fucking done enough? You shouldn’t be molesting him in your fucking thoughts.

Greg stared straight ahead, as he’d been trained, refusing to look at Mycroft again the rest of their conversation and letting his face fall into safe lines of detached obedience.

“Captain Lestrade?”

Greg didn’t so much as twitch. “Your Highness?”

“I have no right to speak of this, considering my egregious behavior, but my mind will not allow me to be easy. I wish to apologize for my disparaging treatment of you the other morning.”

* * *

 

His heart was beating out of his chest and it was hard to get enough air. His hands, clasped behind his back, were sweaty, and Mycroft reached for his control, trying to master himself as Gregory turned his head to stare at him as if he’d just done something outrageous.

“I...I beg your pardon, sir?”

Mycroft ducked his head, horribly uncomfortable. He had arranged and rehearsed this speech over the last few days, perfecting what he would say to Gregory and how. Every night, Mycroft had tossed and turned in bed, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t hurt his healing injuries and remembering all the terrible things he’d said to his Captain. He had been sickened at himself and his behavior. Gregory Lestrade was a good man, and a good Captain.

Mycroft had been hurt and upset, but that had given him no right, no right at all, to take his emotions out on the Captain. He didn’t deserve that sort of treatment, not after he had served Mycroft as he’d done. It didn’t matter if Gregory chose to spend a heat with a new Omega every other month, so long as it didn’t interfere with his duties. It was none of Mycroft’s business- even if the thought left him heartbroken. Which was ridiculous. He had no claims on Gregory Lestrade beyond his capacity of his Captain. Gregory’s personal life was his own.

“I wish to apologize for my disparaging treatment of you the other morning.” Mycroft repeated, thankful his voice betrayed nothing of the riot his emotions were currently going through. Steady and even. He could make it through this. “My behavior towards you was unforgivable. It was wrong of me to admonish you as I did for events which took place during a personal leave of absence. Everything I said to you that morning was said in anger...and I am sorry.”

Gregory continued to stare at him, openly gaping. He didn’t respond and Mycroft experienced a sick swoop of fear that Gregory would reject him. That he would throw Mycroft’s shoddy apology back in his face. Not that Mycroft blamed him. He deserved that and much worse. But before that happened, and as Gregory continued to remain silent, Mycroft thought he had to at least _try_ and make this right.

“I greatly enjoyed having sexual intercourse with you.” He blurted and this time Gregory’s entire composure fell apart. He dropped completely out of his rigid military stance, turning his whole body towards Mycroft and goggling at him, eyes wide.

“ _What_?” He sounded upset, bordering on angry. Mycroft winced. He faced Gregory head on, though, because he knew that he deserved anything Gregory might yell at him.

“You wished to discuss our time together last year at The Queen’s Head.” Phrasing it that way made it sound as if they had taken a leisurely vacation to the bar. Not fucked like animals above it. “You were afraid that you had been too rough and might have inadvertently injured me in some way. You didn’t.”

Gregory blinked at him, his face blank. It seemed Mycroft would have to say more and explain further what he meant. He had been hoping Gregory would fill the void, would understand everything Mycroft was not saying. But it seemed not.

“Captain Lestrade.” Mycroft began and his voice wobbled slightly, his throat suddenly closing up, the first noticeable betrayal of his body against his emotions. Gregory’s eyes narrowed. Mycroft nervously cleared his throat and plowed forward.

“Captain Lestrade, you rendered me a great service last year by assisting me through my heat. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have gone into the throes of heat in the middle of a group of Alpha soldiers. I know what would have happened to me. But you protected me, and treated me very well considering the less than ideal circumstances and your general dislike of me. You were very kind during the entirety of our sexual congress. There was nothing you did-”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Greg frowned, stepping forward and Mycroft’s heart gave an anxious lurch. “What do you mean by that?”

“By what?” Surely the man knew what sexual congress was. Please gods. Mycroft didn’t think he would be able to explain that to Gregory without blushing.

“My general dislike of you?” Gregory asked and he sounded angry, as if Mycroft had insulted him.

“I assure you that I am not upbraiding you for it, Captain.” Mycroft said. “I realize that I am an unpleasant person to be with and I am not unaware of your dislike of me. But it serves to directly illustrate my point!” He hastily said when Gregory took another indignant step forward. “For you to overcome your personal feelings in order to render me the necessary attentions which I know you would much rather not have done- Not only to do that, but to do it in such a way as to be comforting and friendly...it’s highly commendable of your dedication to me. Highly. I can say for absolute fact that no one else would have been able to do such a thing for me in such an intimate way.”

Gregory’s jaw clenched, his eyes veritably sparking with outrage, and Mycroft didn’t know what he’d said wrong. It unnerved him. He had been trying to make things better and somehow he’d miscalculated. It was worse than before. He wondered briefly if Gregory would actually hit him. While Mycroft didn’t _want_ to be hit- his mother’s slaps had hurt enough, he couldn’t imagine how much worse Gregory’s fist would be- he thought with a sinking feeling that he rather deserved it. Especially after the things he had said to Gregory.

“It..it was a good thing you did for me, Captain.” Mycroft stammered. He wanted to end this. Just please gods, end this. “I am incredibly grateful to you. I- I never expected to engage in sexual relations and so while my gauche responses must have been...been very off-putting to someone experienced such as yourself, there was nothing you did that I didn’t want or...enjoy. Of course, there was a little pain b-but...but it wasn’t...I assume it’s always like that for a..um...a first kn-knotting.” He stuttered horribly over the admission and there it was. Oh gods. He could feel himself blushing, his body finally betraying him in the most obvious of ways. He wanted to melt through the floor of the conservatory. He couldn’t look at Gregory who took another step forward.

“As for the other things I said to you, Captain…Your...your scent...” Mycroft could feel his cheeks darkening further and he rushed to get the rest of it out, “Your scent is not off-putting. Quite the opposite in fact...And when I said...said that I never wanted you to t-touch me again...well. That is hardly a proper sentiment. Is it? Especially considering your vows to protect me as I’m sure touching me will factor into that at some point. Not in the way of another heat!” Mycroft hurried to say, just in case Gregory thought he was propositioning him again. “I just- I just m-meant in..general. And….and your sexual fumblings weren’t crude.”

Mycroft closed his eyes in abject embarrassment. This was not going the way he had planned. At all. He wished he had never even attempted this idiotic farce.

“ _I mean_ , they weren’t even fumblings. You were clearly experienced and knew what you were doing. Your sexual technique was very...adequate.”

Gregory chuckled and Mycroft’s eyes flicked down, hope blooming in his chest when Gregory grinned at him ruefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone tell me that before.”

Mycroft smiled despite himself. “And is that something a lot of people can attest to, Captain?” He teased and Gregory winced.

“Not that many, Your Highness-”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, no. Your personal life is your own, Captain. It was wrong of me to admonish you for it.” Mycroft stepped forward, earnest, putting himself in striking distance but he didn’t think Gregory would hit him. Not really. “I am sorry for everything I said to you that morning. I was already highly upset when I entered your rooms and I’m afraid I took it out on you. That was unfair….Will you please forgive me, Gregory?”

Gregory hummed, moving closer and slowly reaching out, letting Mycroft know what he was going to do the whole time, considerately giving him the chance to move away. Mycroft didn’t want to. When Gregory cupped his cheek, fingers infinitely careful over his bruise, Mycroft’s heart broke all over again. It was everything he knew he could have with Gregory, in that one caress, if only Gregory wanted him. Tender and soft. Respectful. Careful not to hurt him. Mycroft wanted to lean into his touch, turn his head to the side and kiss Gregory’s wrist before closing his eyes and letting Gregory kiss his lips. It would be so easy. So very easy.

"Will you tell me who hit you?"

Mycroft shook his head, and Gregory sighed.

It would also be the height of foolishness, throwing himself at the Captain like that just because he showed him a little bit of attention. Mycroft could imagine the look of disgust on Gregory’s face but he would stand still and allow Mycroft to kiss him because of his vows. Not because he wanted him. It would be because of his duty. That was all. He felt nothing for Mycroft.

Even so, Mycroft couldn’t help but dart a quick glance down at Gregory’s lips, so near, closer than they had been in the last year. His heart skipped a beat at his own daring, remembering how wonderful those lips had felt against his own-

“Mycroft…?”

Caught staring, Mycroft’s eyes flew to meet Gregory’s from inches away, startled that he was so close, an apologetic explanation already forming on his lips. He didn’t know what Gregory saw in his face, what sign or signal Mycroft gave him, but his eyes darkened. His hand moved from Mycroft’s cheek to the back of his head and he delicately drew him into a soft kiss.

Oh. Oh gods.

Mycroft was stiff, paralyzed with shock. Gregory was kissing him. Gregory, his illustrious Captain of the Guard, was kissing him. Freely. Of his own will.

Mycroft breathed shakily, eyes wide and staring at Gregory from inches away. He didn’t know what to do or how to even _begin_ to respond and when Gregory realized that Mycroft wasn’t reacting, that he was still stiff and awkward against him, he quickly released him, abashed.

“ _I’m so sorry_ , Your Highness. Gods, I’m so sorry! I don’t-“

“No! No, wait-!” If this was all he could have, he would take it. Mycroft rushed forward and snatched at Gregory, hands fisting in his uniform and tugging him closer until he could press their lips together again.

* * *

 

Gods above. It had been a whole year and Mycroft _still_ didn’t know how to kiss.

Not that Greg gave a flying fuck. He loved the feel of Mycroft’s lips moving against his, smooth and pillowy, even if they were awkward and inept. It was endearing. Greg held the back of Mycroft’s head, tilting it to the side so he could take charge and deepen the kiss and Mycroft let him, hands smoothing over his shoulders.

“Gregory.” Mycroft breathed and _gods_. Greg loved the way Mycroft said his name. He would give anything, his very life, to hear it again. He’d thought he never would. He moaned and Mycroft’s breath hitched. “G-Gregory…”

Greg carefully backed Mycroft up, helping to lower him onto the bench before going to his knees in front of him, between Mycroft’s legs, and pulling him back into the kiss. And Mycroft came to him willingly. So fucking willingly.

He hadn’t hurt Mycroft. Mycroft had actually enjoyed having sex with him. Mycroft had blushed and stuttered and let Greg see _him_ again and what he’d seen-

Greg was dying. He knew he was. He couldn’t smell Mycroft. There was no whiff of his scent, but every little breath he huffed against Greg’s cheek was incredible, even more when a small moan bled through, low in Mycroft’s throat and Greg had never heard it before but now that he had, he was addicted. He had to hear it again.

He pulled Mycroft closer, his hand at the small of Mycroft’s back to press them together, and Mycroft inhaled sharply against his lips, arching against him, moaning again.

“Gods, I want you.” Greg confessed recklessly, barely parting their lips but then wanting more- needing it- and dropped his head to pepper Mycroft’s chin and neck with kisses as Mycroft gasped and then shuddered. The entire front of his body was pressed to Greg’s, moving, and Greg closed his eyes, mouthing a curse because oh fucking gods above. He could feel, through those damn trousers, a telling hardness and he wanted nothing more than to pull Mycroft even closer and let him frot against him until he came. Just so he could hear the noises Mycroft would make while he did it.

Mycroft’s brow scrunched adorably, eyes closed. “Gregory…”

“Oh, fuck…” Greg captured Mycroft’s lips again, mouth falling open when Mycroft ran his fingers, those damn elegant fingers, through Greg’s hair, sliding through the strands as he scooted forward on the bench-

“Mycroft?”

The Queen’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade. Mycroft gasped, high and shocked, and he shoved Greg away from him so hard that he fell backwards onto the conservatory path. Mycroft quickly stood, covering his mouth in horror, eyes large. He stared at Greg in pure terror and it was enough to provoke every protective instinct Greg had. He never wanted to see that look on Mycroft’s face again. Ever.

“Mycroft? Where are you?”

They could hear her shoes on the walk. Quick. Determined.

“I’m here!” Mycroft warbled before covering mouth again, his breathing too fast. “Please, Gregory. Don’t let her know you’re in here with me. _Please_.” He begged, and Greg didn’t know what to say. What was Mycroft talking about? He was still reeling from everything that had just happened- Mycroft’s apology, their kisses- and his mind was slow to catch on.

“ _Please_ , _Gregory_.” Mycroft whispered in an agonized voice, and Greg didn’t know how he would hide, or where, or what he would say when the Queen ultimately saw him, but he nodded all the same. Whatever Mycroft wanted. Mycroft sagged in relief before ushering Greg to a narrow strip of hedge and shoving him into the little alcove, the branches closing in around him, concealing him from view- and none too soon.

“Mycroft! There you are!” The Queen cried. “Sherlock told me you were still in here. What are you doing? The ceremony will begin shortly.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I was just...thinking.”

“Mycroft! Don’t worry yourself today.” The Queen happily chided. “Today is for you to triumph in your success. You’ve arranged such a successful betrothal for Sherlock and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

They were so close to where he was hiding that Greg could hear the sound of the Queen’s kiss against Mycroft’s cheek. He was afraid that the slightest movement would give away his position and he slowly...slowly...slowly breathed, regulating the flow of air cautiously. His heart was still pounding from their interlude. He didn’t know why Mycroft had wanted him to hide, but Greg would do as he wanted.

He could see a sliver of the Queen through a small space between the leaves, beaming at her eldest child before her face fell somewhat.

“Tell me, poppet- does your cheek still hurt terribly?”

“No, ma’am.” The Queen sighed. Greg could see her touching Mycroft’s face, over his bruise, brow furrowed. “You’ve been applying the salve like I’ve told you?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Good. I wish I could say that I am sorry for it, Mycroft, but I’m not. I never wanted to do it, of course, but you were quite hysterical. It was the only thing I knew that would bring you to your senses.”

The Queen. It had been... _The Queen_ who struck Mycroft?

While Greg grappled with this information, the pair on the conservatory path were quiet as the Queen fingered Mycroft’s cheek, tsking.

“It’s unfortunate you’re still bruised for the ceremony but I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it. Mycroft...now that you’ve had time for reflection, surely you must realize the foolishness of your request.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. We don’t need to discuss it.”

“No, I suppose this isn’t the ideal time, but I want you to know that I understand how you feel, Mycroft. I really do.” She said soothingly. “I still love you and I don’t think the less of you for it. You’ve never been given the attention of an Alpha before and it’s always a heady thing for an Omega to experience the first time. It’s unfortunate that you’ve let this entire situation with the Captain fool your senses and blind you to the truth which is right in front of you.”

It took everything Greg had not to make a sound. Him. She was talking about him. What situation? What the absolute fuck was she talking about?

“I assure you that I haven’t-”

“You _have_ , dearest.” The Queen stressed. “You have. You’ve done just that...but it doesn’t have to be that way. You’re smarter than this, Mycroft. I know you are. You’re the most intelligent Omega I’ve ever known, and I’m so proud that you’re my son...however, in this you are still ignorant. You are unlearned in the dynamics that play out between Alphas and Omegas. Just because an Alpha shares a heat with you, even if it’s your first, does not mean they care for you. Omegas are more sentimental than Alphas that way. The Captain cares nothing for you.” She said it so calmly, her face open and honest, and stood in front of her, Mycroft was silent.

“I understand where you would be fooled into thinking he did, poppet, since you’ve never gone through this before. It’s why I’m glad you called for me that night so I could prevent you making a mistake. If you had thrown yourself at the Captain, wholly without dignity, where would we be right now?” She shook her head pityingly and all Greg saw was red. Any good feelings which had lingered from Mycroft’s earlier kisses were eradicated in the wake of the absolutely scornful way the Queen was speaking of him. And Mycroft.

“All you would be to him now is an easy fuck. I’m sure somewhere secretly he already thinks of you in such a way after the unfortunate event last year, and if you allow him close to you now...it will only be worse. Alphas are all like that, poppet. Once they know you want them, they will always press their advantage, at every point, so long as you show them the slightest encouragement.”

“I assure you, ma’am, that I haven’t…I won’t given the Captain any encouragement.” Mycroft replied, his voice slipping back into the cadence Greg had grown to hate over the last year- the ice cold Prince returning. It was so natural that he almost missed it before realizing what had happened with something akin to dread.

“I hope you don’t. I would hate to see my son chase after someone in such a fashion, fantasizing that the Alpha’’s going to fall in love with you like one of those stories you used to read as a child-"

“I don’t think that.” Mycroft said stiffly. “I don’t think such a silly thing like that at all.”

“Good.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m so glad you don’t. It makes it easier for you to move on from this. Doesn’t it? It’s for the best not to fight the futility of it because after all, how could a man like the Captain ever love you?” It was said so kindly and sweetly, underlined with a mother’s love and dripping with poison. “You’re too smart for him, Mycroft. You and your gorgeous intelligence shouldn’t be relegated to being simply a fun toy for him to play with when the mood strikes him and he wants to get his knot wet.”

Greg waited for Mycroft to protest. To argue against his mother’s misguided and frankly ridiculous logic because hadn’t Greg just shown Mycroft how much he regarded him? How wrong all her statements were?

But Mycroft remained silent, and something horrible settled in Greg’s chest.

“I know his type. Alphas like the Captain want Omegas who are worldly and sophisticated, ones who know what they want and their way around a knot, and that is decidedly not you. Because,” The Queen paused delicately, cupping Mycroft’s face between her hands. “what could _you_ ever possibly hope to offer a man like the Captain? Besides being a silly, gasping Omega, eager to be used?” She shook her head. “That is not who you are, is it? I’ve raised you better than to behave in such a way. You would not actually debase yourself like that, would you, poppet? Chasing after an Alpha who would only use you at his leisure?”

“No, ma’am.” Mycroft replied and Greg ground his teeth. That was not how Mycroft would act and he knew it. She was cheapening what he and Mycroft had just shared, warping it into something wrong. Greg was so furious he was shaking with it. He wanted to go out there and...and...

“I do want you to be happy, though, poppet. One day. Maybe...maybe when Sherlock marries his Alpha and they’ve been settled for a few years, and when Sherlock has produced a couple of heirs and the kingdom is stable...maybe then you can find someone for yourself. Quietly. Discreetly. You won’t be able to bond with them, of course, and I would highly discourage entering into a sexual relationship for fear of exposing what you really are….but you could have companionship. Couldn’t you? A nice friend to love who is devoted to you? That sounds better than any idle daydreams, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mycroft said, and even through his haze of fury, Greg wanted to shiver from the icy detachment he heard in Mycroft’s voice. His mother, however, didn’t seem to mind, hugging Mycroft to her.

“Now. Enough of this. Come along, poppet. You know they can’t start the ceremony without you and I.” She teased, turning away and walking back down the pathway.

Greg watched Mycroft who, after a brief hesitation, followed his mother without a backward glance.


	7. Chapter 7

Everyone likes a good party, and Northumbrian celebrations were legendary.

The people in Marseille _still_ talked about the long days of feasting they’d enjoyed when Crown Prince Sherlock was born. The dances and food and the shower of flowers which seemed to cover everything in the city- the streets, the houses, the rooftops, the people- like heaps of snow. They fondly remembered the music which had played at all hours of the day and night, never ceasing, the fireworks lighting up the sky until dawn, and the way the wine had flowed like a veritable river. The Queen had sent sweet dainties into the city so that everyone could share in her good fortune on the birth of a healthy child, and no one had worked for almost a week (except pub keepers and brothel owners, both of whose businesses saw a 900% increase). More than one child in Marseille was conceived during the week long revelry, and some Omegas still blushed when they remembered the way their Alphas had been inspired by the birth of a healthy babe up at the palace, giggling at the memory of debauched virility.

Even the holy men from the temples had forsaken their vows in the spirit of celebrating the gods’ answer to their prayers- although everyone seemed to conveniently forget that they’d been praying for an _Alpha_ , not an Omega who couldn’t inherit the throne.

It was no matter.

The Queen’s Consort had given birth to a healthy baby, and the Queen and her Consort were both generous, benevolent rulers who had sent good wine into the city along with the sweetmeats and pastries. Everyone had been too happy- and too drunk- to care that the gods had mixed up the gender of the new child.

Eleven years later, anticipations ran high in the city of Marseille once again. If that much celebration had been given to his _birth_ , the people excitedly whispered, imagine how much _more_ pomp and circumstance, feasting and drinking, music and fun, would be given to the Crown Prince’s _betrothal_! What would the Queen do, they asked in hushed whispers, to welcome the future Alpha King?

It was all the citizens could talk about for months, ever since the betrothal with Scotland was announced, and speculation abounded. Rumors swirled. Nothing definite was said, but preparations were arranged with giddy optimism all the same.

And finally, a few months before the actual day of the betrothal ceremony, the Queen’s plans for her citizens’ celebrations were announced.

No one was disappointed. It seemed beyond their wildest dreams.

On the morning of the betrothal, as dawn broke over the eastern sky, the people in Marseille were already stirring, readying themselves for a day of fun and gaiety. Excitement infused the early morning Spring air which was chilly with swirling wisps of fog, and everyone ate breakfast quickly, wanting to rush out and be a part of the buzz of gleeful activity, As morning faded into afternoon, everyone abandoned their work (not much had been accomplished anyway) and wholeheartedly joined in the celebrations.

Music played from every corner and vendors set up their shops along the thoroughfares where the biggest crowds would be, selling roasted chicken, ale, sweet cakes, and spiced nuts. Children rushed like mad through the streets, dressed in their best, yelling and shouting and laughing, weaving in and out of the gathering crowd. In the main square, under a bright midday sun, the traditional dances were being performed. Smiling couples zigzagged in and out, touching hands (but nothing else, under the close eyes of their parents), losing their steps as they blushed and flirted with every brush of their hands. Friends called to one another. Laughter rang out. Loud exclamations boomed. The mouthwatering scent of food wafted on the breeze along with the general smell of a crowd- perfume and sweat, smoke and hay and horses and flowers. Sunshine and the sweet smell of warm, green things. It all coalesced into an overwhelming teem of life: everyone brought together to commemorate the betrothal of their Crown Prince, and the arrival of their future king.

And the entire city, from the guarded gates at the entrance, to the Grand Avenue in front of the palace, was turned topsy turvy for the glorious holiday.

Some people speculated hopefully that the festivities would last longer than the one day and night as had been originally planned. The Royal Tour would begin a week from the day to introduce the new Scottish Alpha Prince to the people of Northumbria, and the old-timers thought it was therefore highly likely that the whole of the next 7 days would be filled with merrymaking and jubilation.

Everyone hoped. Prayed. Laughed and talked. Drank and ate. Danced and fornicated. And waited, as they swilled wine and raucously discussed the meeting of their little Omega Prince to the rumored handsome Alpha, for word of the completion of the ceremony.

* * *

 

Festivities were more sedate in the palace. Refined, but no less jubilant.

The kitchens were full to bursting with cooks and servants and maids, a good number of whom had been hired special for that day- extra hands needed to accommodate the staggering number of people who would be staying at the palace. They worked hard, sweating and red-faced, and they prepared and cooked enough food for the noonday meal, the dinner that evening, and put together little dainty things for the royals to eat at the gala afterwards. It was enough to feed the entire army...and then some. The leftovers would be given to the servants, and then those leftovers would be distributed into the city. There was always so much more food than was needed, and the citizens never knew they got third pickings.

The servants, rushing back and forth, even stressed and harried, were still happy. They gave each other excited grins, pushing and shoving as they went. They would have their own dance that night- or rather early morning- once the kitchen was cleaned and all that was left to do was wait for the Royal family to go to bed, and the nobles to leave. A few of them knew how to play instruments, and some distant relations had been pressed into coming up to the palace that night with the promise of food and wine in exchange for playing a few ditties for the servants to dance to.

There were spontaneous bursts of singing, excited giggles, and a few of the maids cried out in mock outrage as the servingmen made so bold as to _pinch_ them. Not that they minded. Everyone knew who would be sleeping with who that night- and the anticipation was sweet.

* * *

 

Above stairs, there was no pinching or spontaneous bursts of singing, but the air was just as infused with excitement.

The entire palace had been specially decorated. The finest silk tapestries were hung along the walls, and fresh flowers filled the air with their rich perfume. They were everywhere- the Queen’s favorite white roses- covering the walls in festooning garland and arranged in graceful sprays wherever possible. Roses for love, and white for virginity and the blatant symbolism was not lost on anyone.

The marble floors, polished to a high shine, reflected the brilliant sunshine which flashed in at the windows as the nobility of Northumbria, dressed in their best clothes, gathered in the Great Hall as the time for the betrothal ceremony drew closer. They filled the large, ornate chamber, jostling for the best positions with only passing attempts at cold civility. The blessed crystals from the temples dangled and spun from a slight breeze at the high arching windows, throwing rainbows over everything below and glinting brilliantly, catching the eye.

Built hundreds of years ago, the walls themselves set with artfully arranged gemstones, the Great Hall was already elaborate, but it had been further decorated in honor of the occasion. Here, in the cavernous room which already shone with opulence, the white roses continued their march. They climbed up the huge white pillars supporting the soaring roof, contrasted with the intricate scrolling gold work running around the perimeter of the room, and hung in drooping arches at regular intervals around the main aisle.

It was a sight to behold.

Peeking out from the room he was waiting in, John was unable to tear his eyes away from the sight, darting them here and there, trying to see everything at once but knowing he was missing so much. Well, he thought, there’d be time later for him to look at the Great Hall after the betrothal. After he was named the future Alpha King of Northumbria.

At that idea, John needed to sit down.

* * *

 

The nobles gathered in close-knit clusters, whispering to each other as soft music played from a corner, the minstrels unobtrusive and quiet. Excitement filled the air as more and more people arrived, and the hour drew closer. There was a buzz of tension, unable to be seen, but felt by anyone in attendance.

The Northumbrian royalty gave sidelong glances at the smattering of Scottish nobility which had arrived earlier with the Alpha Prince. Wrinkling their nose in judgement, they tittered at the way the outsiders stood out in their plaid, with their coarse beards and rugged looks. Their loud voices, heavily accented, carried in the vast Hall, echoing and they didn’t even try and keep quiet.

Everyone thought it was incredibly rude.

And it made everyone uncomfortable how the Scottish lords laughed- a booming laugh, a startling burst of noise, as they uproariously slapped each other on the back in a hearty manner. The nobles stared in disgust. They seemed an uncouth group, and a Northumbrian lady wondered a little _too_ loudly if they were even house-broken.

But as they were related (in various ways) to the Alpha Prince, and as the Alpha Prince would be the future King of Northumbria, a few of the more daring- and cunning- nobles made a cold attempt to introduce themselves. It was early days yet. They didn’t know who would be closest to the Alpha Prince, who would have his favor or ear, and could therefore be useful to have as acquaintance.

The Scottish lords seemed more amused than gratified by the recognition, and after they’d heard what the lady said, they weren’t inclined to be civil.

It was awkward.

Everyone couldn’t wait for the ceremony to begin.

* * *

 

_“The Captain cares nothing for you.”_

There were too many people. Too much noise and not enough space to move, let alone breathe. The small antechamber attached to the Great Hall was crammed with people, all of whom were to take part in the betrothal ceremony.

The Queen and her Consort. The priest and his acolyte both of whom would perform the ceremony and offer a benediction to the young couple. A few members of the nobility who were more closely connected to the royal family than the others. The General of the Queen’s Army. The two Princes. Only a notable few were still absent, and once they arrived, the ceremony could begin.

_“The Captain cares nothing for you.”_

Mycroft, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, kept his eyes forward and fixed in the middle distance, pretending he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. A quieter place. Somewhere he could be alone.

Not his conservatory, he thought with a wince. What had once been his refuge was now irreparably tarnished by what had happened today. He would never be able to enter the peaceful sanctuary without remembering…

_“Gods, I want you.”_

_Gregory’s hand, splayed warm and large, on Mycroft’s back, pulling him closer on the bench and Mycroft surging closer without any shame. Letting himself be led. Wanting. Gregory’s lips were rough against Mycroft’s, kissing him without finesse but with a breathless abandon Mycroft had never experienced before. Of course he hadn’t. The only person he’d ever kissed was Gregory and that last year during his heat. Those kisses had been gentle, simple little things. These kisses were nothing like that._

_Gregory’s lips were so wonderfully rough against Mycroft’s. Exciting. Mouth open. Heavy breaths. Everything a blur. Mycroft’s heart leaping in his chest and arousal spiking as Gregory clutched at him, making him respond, his body hardening. And above all, the elation that Gregory wanted him, that he was showing obvious interest which had nothing to do with Mycroft’s heat._

_As Gregory’s tongue twined with his own, Mycroft allowed himself to believe, for a shining moment, that maybe…maybe he could…he could have this._

_He could have Gregory._

_He was wanted. No one had ever wanted him before._

No one still did.

_“All you would be to him now is an easy fuck. I’m sure somewhere secretly he already thinks of you in such a way after the unfortunate event last year, and if you allow him close to you now...Once they know you want them, they will always press their advantage, at every point, so long as you show them the slightest encouragement.”_

Mycroft’s insides withered with shame when he remembered the easy way he had fallen into Gregory’s arms, his mother’s words stripping away the last bit of happiness from the encounter and turning it into something horrific. If they hadn’t been interrupted, Mycroft would’ve let Gregory take him right there, in the conservatory. He would’ve let Gregory lay him on the pathway- the dirty ground- and strip him of his clothes before eagerly spreading his legs so he could be fucked among his silly flowers. Gregory wouldn’t have had to beg, or even ask. Mycroft would have given everything to him. He would have been more than willing.

Mycroft’s stomach twisted as he remembered the way he had acted in the conservatory; the damning behavior he had demonstrated to his Captain. Grabbing at him. Kissing him. Reduced to pleading. Allowing the Captain to pull him closer and _rubbing_ himself against the Alpha like a bitch in heat. The shame of it froze Mycroft to his very core and he was afraid, for a few seconds, that he would be sick in front of everyone. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing convulsively, and tried to get control of himself.

He should never have allowed something like that to happen. How had he lost control in such an egregious way? He should have apologized to Captain Lestrade, as he’d planned, said what he needed to say, and left it at that. He should not have made it personal. He should not have allowed the Captain to touch him, or kiss him, or…

Mycroft wanted to scream. Cry. Break things. He wanted to be alone so he could give vent to his emotions and not have to pretend-

But that wasn’t possible. Now was not the time or the place to indulge himself.

He had a part to play.

He forced himself to stand still and silent, face impassive, as conversation flowed around him. Everyone was in high spirits. Happy and animated. No one was troubled and every face was alight with joy, anticipating a beautiful ceremony and then spending the rest of the day celebrating. Mycroft smiled and bowed, his chest tight with pain, as people passed him, responding as he was expected to, making the requisite replies, but unable to discern exactly what he was saying.

It must have been correct, he thought with relief, because no one looked askance at him. His mother’s words beat along his skin like physical blows. He wanted to hunch from the pain to try and protect himself.

_“What could you ever possibly hope to offer a man like the Captain? Besides being a silly, gasping Omega eager to be used?”_

Mycroft knew he had nothing to offer the Captain.

He wasn’t handsome or charming. He wasn’t funny or strong. He couldn’t be sensual or seductive. He was…himself.

Prince Mycroft Holmes.

Tall and awkward and prickly. Plain. Nothing special except for his intellect- and he was certain the Captain did not value that.

Which was not a blemish against him. It was only…the Captain was an Alpha. Mycroft remembered the way he had looked that morning in the barracks: fucked out and satiated. He had taken his pleasure in another Omega’s body, multiple times, fucking them until every muscle was sore and his very skin reeked of Omega heat. He had enjoyed it, that much had been obvious, and his copulation with the Omega had been nothing like what he had shared with Mycroft- there had been passion and heat and desire…not duty and obligation. The Captain was a good man, and a good Alpha, but he still had desires.

He wanted…

But…

Mycroft _could_ play the gasping, pleading Omega. He had done so earlier in the conservatory, hadn’t he? Clutching the Captain to him and rushing into a kiss, making his arousal known in the crudest of ways while Gregory kissed his neck.

Mycroft’s eyes slid to where his mother, regal in her crown and golden ceremonial clothes, spoke to a large, older Alpha, tall with brown hair and a beard shot with grey. The General of the Queen’s Army, Bernard Greely. The Queen’s right-hand man. As if sensing his gaze, General Greely paused in his conversation with the Queen and turned, his eyes colliding with Mycroft’s across the room. He gave him a warm smile, thoughts in his eyes that Mycroft would rather not contemplate. It was always like that with him.

Mycroft quickly looked away.

_“You and your gorgeous intelligence shouldn’t be relegated to being simply a fun toy for him to play with when the mood strikes him and he wants to get his knot wet.”_

_“I would hate to see my son chase after someone in such a fashion, fantasizing that the Alpha’s going to fall in love with you like one of those stories you used to read as a child-"_

What if she didn’t see him chasing after the Captain?

Mycroft could hide it from her. After all, his mother had raised him to be discreet, in all things, since he was old enough to talk and he had learned the lesson well.

Captain Lestrade desired Mycroft in a sexual way, just as Mycroft did him. They were both consenting adults. It would be easy enough to hide an affair between the two of them.

Mycroft bit his lip, letting himself cautiously imagine it.

Obviously, love could have nothing to do with it, but if Mycroft let Gregory know before they started that he only desired a physical relationship with no strings attached...Gregory would be more likely to accept his proposition. And Mycroft could have him for a while- at least until the novelty of fucking him wore off and Gregory moved on to someone better. But until then, the Captain would want him. Desire him. Mycroft knew he would treat him kindly and he was certain he would find pleasure in any sexual act they did.

And then once it was over, it would be over. They could both move on.

It was incredibly tempting.

Mycroft saw, from the corner of his eyes, Captain Lestrade arrive in the antechamber. He ruthlessly kept his face blank, even as his heart skipped a traitorous beat as the Alpha wound his way through the small crowd to Mycroft to take his expected place at his side. He would be standing beside him on the dias during the ceremony- the respected and exalted Captain of the Prince’s Guard, a trusted ally, alongside the Queen’s General. A show of strength to the Scottish visitors.

“Your Highness.” Captain Lestrade murmured, and for the first time since he could remember, Mycroft didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt light-headed. He half-glanced at the Captain, giving him the barest of acknowledgements, not sure what would happen if he looked at him directly. After what happened in the conservatory? The things the Captain had heard his mother say? The insinuations she’d made? Mycroft thought he may fall to pieces.

Captain Lestrade didn’t seem surprised at Mycroft’s coldness. He stepped closer, close enough that the ends of his ceremonial cape brushed against his trousers and the scent of him lay thick in Mycroft’s nostrils. Mycroft suppressed his reaction, but couldn’t stop the pink from suffusing his cheeks.

“I would speak to you.” His low voice tugged at Mycroft’s stomach. The last time he’d heard Captain Lestrade speak, he was being passionately kissed and grinding his erection against him.

“Now is not the time, Captain.” His voice sounded odd to his own ears. For some reason, it hurt his throat to speak.

Captain Lestrade frowned. “Are you well-”

“Perfectly. Thank you.”

“Very well.” He murmured, the sound of his voice sending a shiver down Mycroft’s spine. Desperate, he fixed his gaze on a tapestry on the wall opposite and let his eyes glaze over, trying his best to divorce himself from the situation. They were in public, surrounded by people. The Queen was only a few yards from them. It would not do for him to react in an obvious way.

“I do not wish to do this here,” Captain Lestrade whispered, the barest gust of sound, “but if you force me, I will. You can act ignorant if you want, but you know why I want to speak with you. I cannot be silent on this. I hope you do not think, Your Highness,” He bit out angrily,“that I would in any way act in the despicable way your mother implied.”

Mycroft glanced at him before he could stop himself- then quickly looked away, heart racing. He grappled for a response, eyes flicking anxiously over the assembly to make sure no one was closely observing them. “I apologize for my mother’s offensive language-”

“Mycroft-”

“I do not know what to think, Captain.” His throat threatened to close from nerves, but Mycroft pressed on. “One thing, however, remains clear.” He gathered his resolve, and experienced a brief flash of incredulity that he was really going to do this. “I would speak to you after the ceremony about...my proposition.”

“Proposition?”

“I believe that is what they call it. Yes? I confess that I am unlearned in things such as this, but I am sure you can still correctly interpret my meaning.”

* * *

 

Correctly interpret his meaning?

The only way Greg could _possibly_ interpret Prince Mycroft’s meaning was...not possible. The way he said it...it sounded like Greg was being asked to engage in-

“Of course, if you are not interested I will of course understand.” Mycroft said quickly, giving Greg no time to respond. “I’m not surprised by your disinterest. In all honesty, I didn’t expect you to want-” He broke off, looking away, and Greg grappled with his sudden rage.

_“How could a man like the Captain ever love you?”_

_“What could you ever possibly hope to offer a man like the Captain?”_

Everything. Mycroft could offer him everything.

And Greg would take it, even if he didn’t think he would ever be deserving of it. A man stumbling in the desert couldn’t turn down a drink of cool water, and in the same way it wasn’t possible for Greg Lestrade to turn down Mycroft and his proposition when he’d spent the better part of the last year fantasizing about that very thing.

“No, I. I want.” Greg admitted quietly, studying the closed off profile of the man he had accidentally fallen in love with. “Very much.”

“Oh.” Mycroft still didn't look at him, but he didn’t seem as cold anymore. Greg didn’t know whether or not to take that as a good sign. “Well. That’s. Good. Thank you.”

“You...you don’t need to thank me.” Greg’s heart broke. He remembered with a shudder the sweet way the Queen had told Mycroft that no one would ever love him. That he wasn’t deserving of love. He had to live the rest of his life alone because...because she had forced him into agreeing to an asinine plan when he was a godsdamn child. Now, he was burdened with holding it all together at the risk of his own happiness and Greg...couldn’t stand that.

If Mycroft wanted him, Greg couldn’t deny him. Anything.

He knew that Mycroft wasn’t cold or unfeeling. That was the facade he presented to the world, but there was a whole other person hidden beneath which Greg adored. If Mycroft were offering the proposition Greg thought he was, he would take it.

And he would spend their entire time together convincing the Prince that-

“It’s time to begin.” The Queen announced, clapping her hands and drawing everyone’s attention. “You know your ranks.” She said dismissively, taking the arm of her husband and everyone moved automatically into their expected positions according to their standing in the Court, to make their entrance behind their Queen. Where the Prince went, so did Greg, and he found himself standing slightly behind the two Princes, ready to play the part of dashing Captain to Mycroft’s Prince to everyone assembled. Gods, but he hated ceremonies.

Sherlock fidgeted beside Mycroft, darting a quick look up at his brother, then at Greg. He didn’t ask for it, but it was obvious he needed reassurance. He was white to the lips, even paler than normal, and his eyes were showing too much white like a frightened horse. For all that he was brash and outspoken, the prospect of stepping in front of the entire Court and being betrothed to a complete stranger, sight unseen, was daunting. Greg didn’t blame him.

He laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and could feel the muscles locked and trembling. He gave him a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s all right, Locky.” Mycroft murmured, cupping his brother’s face in his hands and giving him a smile. “Everything will be fine. You need to be calm.”

Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth to speak- then thought better of it and clenched his jaw together, staring forward. Greg gave his shoulder another squeeze, and it was a sign of how nervous Sherlock was that he didn’t shrug him off.

Mycroft frowned, looking troubled, but his face cleared when his mother looked back at him, beaming happily. He gave her a smile in return, and it turned Greg’s stomach.

He wanted to reach out and touch Mycroft. Turn his head so he could look at him and tell him that he shouldn’t believe his mother. She was wrong. He wanted to prove that to him, in any way possible.

He couldn’t do any of those things. Not at the moment.

All Greg could do was follow Mycroft as they stepped into the Great Hall so the ceremony could begin.

* * *

 

John had grown up hearing stories about the grandeur of Northumbrian ceremonies- the outfits and jewels and outrageous opulence- but in his wildest dreams he’d never thought he would be a part of one. Now that he was, he almost wished he wasn’t.

His stomach jerked, queasy with nerves, and his palms were sweaty but there was nothing he could wipe them on. He was terrified of leaving marks on his trousers. This was his first impression on the people he would (hopefully) one day rule and he did not want that impression to be done with sweat stains on his clothes.

He heard the music announcing the entrance of the Royal family in the Great Hall, the entrance of Queen Holmes and her Consort, her sons, and their entourage which would stand on the dias. He heard the murmur of the assembled nobles, a rustling as they shifted into bows and then rose. Any moment now….any moment…

It wouldn’t be so bad, John thought, if he didn’t have to walk the entire bloody length of the godsdamn Great Hall. By himself, in front of everyone while they stared and whispered and judged him.

It was a Northumbrian tradition, he’d been told by the priests. Something about the duality of his and Crown Prince Sherlock’s positions as Alpha and Omega. He would walk to Sherlock on their day of betrothal, and Sherlock would walk to him on their wedding day to symbolize the beginning and the end or some such nonsense. John didn’t give a toss who walked where or when. He just wanted this over.

“John?” Stamford beckoned him over from the doorway. “It’s time.”

Right.

John straightened, squaring his shoulders, and got one last encouraging look from Stamford before he stepped out. Hundreds of eyes turned to him and the yawning cavern of the grandiose room was between him and the royal family who were stood on a raised platform at the front of the Hall.

Right. This was simple. Easy. He knew what he needed to do.

He had to walk to them. Be presented to the Omega Prince. Make his bow. Receive one in return. Join them on the dias. Listen to the priests consecrate their union. Then it would be over.

John kept his eyes focused forward as he walked, trying to keep his spine as straight as possible, feeling horribly exposed. Everyone was staring at him. He wasn’t used to this much attention. He’d spent most of his life trying to _avoid_ drawing attention to himself, because being noticed was dangerous in his father’s Court. Now here he was. Exposed to all of Northumbria and little whispers broke out when he walked past which he pretended not to hear.

As he made his way down the aisle, refusing to look to either side, John could feel the weight of all those eyes pressing on him. A physical weight at his back. He hoped no one could see how badly his legs were trembling. They felt oddly wooden beneath him. He couldn’t feel his feet.

Somehow, he made it to the front of the Hall without tripping and falling on his face, and John finally allowed himself to look at the royal family, eyes quickly skimming the assembled group for the Omega Prince.

When he finally saw him, John almost stopped walking.

He’d been told that the Omega Crown Prince Sherlock was young. Eleven-years-old. The baby and darling of the Court at Marseille. Pampered. The favorite of his mother. Protected and kept secluded. Prince Mycroft had impressed upon John the stretch of years separating them, bluntly stating that his brother was an innocent in every way possible and that he expected him to remain so.

Even the way the servants who attended John in the palace described him much the same:

“A darling little boy.”

“Oh, he’s such a small thing.”

“A tiny wisp of Omega.”

“Adorable, simply adorable.”

John had known the Omega Prince was a child and he'd rightly expected him to look his age. But he hadn't expected the Crown Prince Sherlock to look so very, very young.

Impossibly _childlike_.

Much too young to be getting betrothed to a strange Alpha. He didn’t look old enough to be out of the nursery yet. John would have bet all the money he had that somewhere in the palace, Prince Sherlock still had a nanny.

He was so _small_. It was unhelpful to compare him to his brother, the Prince, and his Captain of the Guard who were nearby because they were both tall, at least 6 feet the both of them. Stood near the tiny Crown Prince, they towered over him, but no: Sherlock was short. John could tell that even when they came face-to-face, he would probably only reach John’s mid-chest. If that.

Oh gods.

His hands, before he hurriedly clasped them behind his back, were as small and delicate as a bird’s wings, just like the rest of him. Fine boned and fragile. H was dainty. Slender as a wisp without the barest hint of muscle anywhere. His face was just as delicate, with the palest skin and clear, light-colored eyes that were widened innocently. The frizz of black curls around his face made him look nothing short of angelic. John felt as if he were committing an act of desecration just by looking at him.

John looked again at the little boy- the _child_ \- he was being betrothed to and felt paralyzed with fear.

Prince Sherlock was so _breakable_.

The thought entered his head and wouldn’t leave. He could break this boy. Easily. Without even meaning to.

He suppressed a shudder of revulsion, dread a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. The best defense it looked like Prince Sherlock had, if he were attacked, was calling for help. He should be in his nursery, being watched by his nanny. Not here, in a throne room being betrothed to an Alpha he'd never met before and who would supposedly control him the rest of his life.

Suddenly, it made sense why Prince Mycroft had involved himself in the search for a future husband for his little brother, and why he had traveled such a long way to make a marriage contract. The Omega Prince’s looks screamed for someone to protect him. John’s first instinct was to wrap him up in a blanket and stash him somewhere safe until his eyes weren’t so large from fear, and his features weren’t frozen in an expression of blank terror while he stared at John’s approach. Blinking too rapidly. Much too rapidly.

John’s steps faltered.

The Omega Prince was scared of him. Gods. He was actually, legitimately scared of John. He couldn’t see it exactly, but the ends of Prince Sherlock’s curls shook like leaves in a strong wind from the force of his fear.

John wished he’d never left Scotland. He could have maybe worked something out with Harry, convinced her he didn’t want to fight for the throne, and asked for a remote castle she didn't even want. Maybe on the border or in the mountains. He could have taken James up on his offer and they could have made a life for themselves. It would have been rough and rugged, bleak, but at least John wouldn't be across the sea terrorizing small children by his presence alone.

It was too late now.

John stopped where he was supposed to, the required distance from the Omega, and bowed, bending smartly at the waist and giving the Crown Prince what he hoped was a reassuring smile when he rose. He did his best to not look intimidating. The Crown Prince’s eyes widened and he went completely still with terror. John realized, with a sinking feeling, that he’d scared him even more.

Gods. How was he going to do this? How were they ever supposed to make this work? What the hell had they told him about Alphas? What the hell had they told him about _John_?

The Crown Prince remained frozen, staring at him with the color high in his cheeks. The moment drew out awkwardly. Someone coughed behind John, masking a laugh no doubt, and there was a shuffling, as people moved, straining their necks to see what was going on. Wondering what was happening to cause the delay. Why the Crown Prince was just standing there blinking at his future husband.

Finally, the Prince nudged him gently and Sherlock startled, looking quizzically up at him.

“Bow.” Prince Mycroft mouthed.

“Oh!” Sherlock’s voice was high- of course it was he was only 11- and he blushed, turning and performing his requisite bow to John, dipping at the waist and then rising in the same second with a quick jerk. It was too fast to be entirely proper and respectful, but John let the gesture slide. He could see Sherlock’s eyes skipping around his body, as if he didn’t exactly know where to look. He didn’t want to make him even more uncomfortable than he already was.

John clasped his own hands behind his back and looked away from the Crown Prince to the Queen as to what would happen next.

John's heart stopped- and the entire Court gasped- when Prince Sherlock stepped off the dias.

* * *

 

Sherlock felt Mycroft try and snatch at him, his fingers barely brushing against his back before Sherlock was out of his reach. Heart fluttering erratically, he padded down the stairs and toward the Alpha who had gone entirely motionless, watching him come with an odd expression. Sherlock kept walking until he was close to Prince John, as close as Mrs. Hudson had said he should be. Close enough to see just how blue John’s eyes were, and that he had shaved that morning, and that his lips were thin but nice because they were still smiling at him.

John Watson was beautiful.

Tall and lean, muscled where he should be and flat where it was needed, with pretty blonde hair and light blue eyes. His eyes which stared cautiously at Sherlock, trying so hard not to be intimidating. Gentle and careful and respectful. Sherlock had never had someone look at him that way before.

Well. He had never been in the position to be ogled by an Alpha either. Especially not one who would one day be his future husband. So there was that.

But still.

John’s smile widened, and Sherlock’s heart gave an erratic leap. It was suddenly hard to get air back into his lungs. There was no cruelty playing around John’s lips like with other Alphas. No condescension. There was a wariness, but that was to be expected considering their situation and that they were meeting for the first time. It was obvious that John wasn’t used to being the center of attention and the ceremony was making him nervous.

Sherlock was drawing the moment out, making it worse for both of them, but he wanted to...to….

He wanted to analyze the situation and determine exactly what he was thinking and feeling, and why- but it was impossible. There wasn't time for that. His mind was stuck. Jammed like a rusty lock. All he could do was stare at John Watson and feel his heart attempt to beat out of his chest.

He wanted to...

Sherlock extended his hand to John, embarrassed at how badly it was shaking. His vision narrowed and everything seemed as if it were happening to someone else. Light-headed, his knees quivering with anxiety, Sherlock wasn’t aware of anyone else in the room except himself and John.

John looked at Sherlock’s hand trembling like a leaf between them, and then at Sherlock’s face. His eyes flicked quickly back and forth. Hand. Face. Hand. Face. Sherlock met him look for look, aware that he could see John’s eyelashes and that they were blonde, long and pretty and framing his eyes gorgeously. He wasn’t sure what Prince John saw in his own eyes, but the Alpha suddenly relaxed. He gave Sherlock another of those small, open smiles and Sherlock’s heart skipped another beat.

John took a step forward and reached for Sherlock’s hand. His touch was like lightning, racing up Sherlock’s arm and the small parts of his skin that John was touching- the tips of his fingers, part of his palm- felt magnified by a hundred. His skin flushed hot and cold, sweat prickling along his hairline, and for some reason the trembling got worse.

Sherlock braced himself, not sure what to expect. Mrs. Hudson had been vague about this part, about what would happen after Sherlock offered the token scenting. It was really up to the Alpha. Sometimes, they used the extended hand to drag the Omega to them, proprietary and possessive, throwing the Omega off-balance and showing their superior strength. Other times the Alpha rubbed a cheek against the offered wrist to place their own scent there instead. Or they turned the token scenting into a vulgar display. Mrs. Hudson said she had actually seen an Omega’s wrist get _licked_ before, right in front of everyone.

John did none of those things.

He took Sherlock’s hand and gently turned it over so that it was palm up, Sherlock’s pale wrist exposed. Sherlock watched him, surprised they couldn’t see his pulse leaping beneath the thin skin. John smiled at him and slowly lowered his head, not breaking eye contact, and, in front of the entire Court, brushed a kiss against the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. Gossamer and soft. Respectful, as if they had just got done dancing.

“Thank you.” He whispered, his accent thick. Sherlock stared, not knowing how to respond. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. He knew he’d embarrass himself if he tried to articulate words.

Sherlock wanted to say something, though. This was their first meeting. He wanted to make a good impression.

“W-welcome to Northumbria.” He blurted and immediately wanted to die with shame. What the hell sort of thing was that to say?

John’s mouth twitched. Sherlock knew he was trying not to laugh at him. He was still holding Sherlock’s hand, warm and gentle, and his eyes danced with mirth but it didn’t feel mean. He was looking at Sherlock as if he wanted him to share in the joke, and Sherlock could feel his own smile curving upward at the utter ridiculousness of what he had just said.

“Thank you.” John said again and Sherlock could feel himself blushing all the way up to his ears in a hot rush.

John let go of his hand and stepped away and the rest of the world suddenly rushed back in. Sherlock was aware that everyone was staring at them. Whispers sizzled like small fires all around the room. Mycroft was an angry presence at his back. He swallowed heavily, casting his eyes down, not sure where to look.

How did he extract himself from this situation? Mrs. Hudson hadn’t mentioned that part and Sherlock hadn't asked. He hadn't thought he would actually need to know. The only thing he could think to do was awkwardly turn around and climb back up onto the dias, carefully avoid looking at Mycroft, and then stand still with his face flaming and every part of his body trembling from the fading rush of adrenaline.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blurry daze. The priests made the invocation to the gods- the important ones anyway- and spoke a blessing over the betrothal. Mummy made an eloquent speech about the uniting of their two countries in love and harmony. Prince John was presented first to Daddy, then bowed deeply to Mummy. He turned and was announced to the Court. Another round of bows from everyone. Sherlock barely listened to any of it.

Mummy announced the celebrations that night- the private supper which almost everyone was invited to- and the gala afterwards. Then, they were leaving, walking off the dias and back into the antechamber where they began the ceremony. Sherlock walked stiffly beside Mycroft and could feel his brother seething. He resisted the urge to look back and get one more glimpse of John.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mummy said once the door closed behind them, turning and beaming at him while patting Sherlock’s cheek. “What a lovely gesture that was! What a nice way to show your future Alpha your respect and obedience. I was so moved by it, darling.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and chucked him under the chin. “You made me so proud. I'm certain the Prince was equally gratified. Was that your brother’s idea?”

Sherlock very carefully did not look at Mycroft. “Ye-yes. It...it was.” He stammered and the Queen turned her attention to Mycroft, giving him all the praise for thinking of such a lovely thing. The best part of the entire ceremony, she said. What a nice gesture to teach his Omega brother about the proper way to act towards an Alpha. She was sure it had made a good impression on the Prince.

Mycroft took their mother’s praise but looked as if he were grinding his teeth, the muscles in his jaw working in a rather alarming way. Once it was over, they all separated, everyone going their separate ways to rest until that evening. Sherlock set off at a quick pace for his wing of the palace, not wanting a confrontation.

Mycroft would give him no such thing.

As soon as they reached the privacy of their wing, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s arm and spun him around. “Where did you learn to do that?” He demanded angrily, but Sherlock ignored him, twisting to get away. “Sherlock!”

“Leave me alone!” Sherlock hissed, jerking away from Mycroft, staggering a bit before righting himself, annoyed.

“Who taught you how to do that, Sherlock?”

“No one!” The angry tears which had been threatening ever since the ceremony spilled down his cheeks without warning and Mycroft's angry composure broke.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” He asked anxiously, reaching for Sherlock as if to make sure he was all right. “What did he do?”

“Nothing. He didn’t do anything.” Sherlock rubbed at his stinging eyes, feeling like a child. A witless Omega who was crumpling under pressure. He felt so stupid but he was angry and upset and he couldn’t stop crying.

“Locky...I’m not really angry at what you did.” Mycroft said softly, trying to reassure him. “I just…you're young and he's so much older and more experienced than you. I didn't want...and anyway, you'll have all the time in the world for things like that when you're older...”

Sherlock was too overwrought to say anything for a full minute. He shook his head, twisting his face as he fought off furious tears. “You should have told me.”

“Told you what?” Mycroft looked so confused- as if he really didn't know- that it angered Sherlock even more.

“You know what!”

“I’ve told you everything I knew these last few months!” Mycroft snapped. “I’ve answered every single one of your godsdamn questions, even the ones I didn’t want to answer, and I’ve done it over and over and over and over. What the hell do you think I haven’t told you?”

“About...about John…” Sherlock managed before his throat closed up from tears, and he had to settle for gesturing wordlessly back the way they’d come.

Mycroft snorted, rolling his eyes. “Oh, my apologies." His voice was so thickly laden with sarcasm that it made Sherlock want to hit him. "Pardon me, Sherlock, for not wanting a strange Alpha to scent all over my little brother in front of the entire godsdamn Court. What a terrible thing for me to want to prevent. I was under the impression- mistaken, obviously- that you'd never even been touched by an Alpha before so you may not want John scenting you either. Not the first time you met. Clearly, I was wrong. Next time, I’ll encourage you to let him paw at you as well, if you'd rather-“

“It’s not that!” Sherlock shouted, stomping his foot in frustration and cutting off Mycroft's diatribe. “You know what you should have told me!”

“Told you _what_?” Mycroft asked and Sherlock thought of the way he had been blindsided when he saw John. The shivery feelings in his stomach. The way his heart had fluttered and skipped beats and made him lightheaded. Not knowing what to do with himself or where to look. Where to put his hands. What to say. Scattered and distracted and wholly unprepared.

“You should have told me that he was handsome!” He shouted at Mycroft tearfully and then bolted down the hall to his room, leaving his brother gaping after him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have changed the tags to include "implied/referenced underage sex" but it is NOT explicit and is only mentioned in passing when discussing John's past and explaining why he and Mycroft had the conversation they did.  
> That will not be included in this chapter, but will be in the next. If you have any questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to send me a message on Tumblr and I'll be happy to answer anything.

When Mycroft, troubled at Sherlock’s upset (but rather pleased at the reason behind it), opened his bedroom door, it was to find Captain Lestrade waiting for him.

Mycroft drew up short, the sight of the Alpha completely unexpected- then he quickly stepped inside and locked the door behind him. His heart hammered and he could taste the pulse of it in his mouth. Captain Lestrade stood across the room, still in his ceremonial outfit, hands clasped behind his back and at military attention. Mycroft’s entrance had clearly surprised him and, as Mycroft leaned back against the door, needing the solid strength of it to steady himself, the Captain flushed a ruddy red.

“I’m sorry. I…Maybe I shouldn’t have-…” He looked very discomfited for a person who had knowingly snuck into someone else’s bedroom. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful in coming here. Especially since I wasn’t…you didn’t tell me...I can leave if that’s what you’d prefer…”

It felt incredibly intimate to have Captain Lestrade in his bedroom.

Mycroft had never had a man in his bedroom before. A strange man, that is. One who wasn’t family. This was his private area, the place where he dressed and undressed and bathed and slept.

His bed was _right there._

“Why are you here, Captain?” It was better to focus on what he could control: facts. He would gather all relevant information before deciding how to act. It was hard to concentrate, though. Mycroft was uncomfortably aware of the Alpha standing not 10 feet from him. The physicality of him was compelling and the first-hand knowledge of his strength, coupled with the faint tendrils of his scent wafting through the air….

Mycroft swallowed nervously.

He didn’t know where to look. He couldn’t look at the Captain. He didn’t think the man was here for an assignation, not this early in their…arrangement.

Although what did _he_ know about these things, Mycroft realized with a beat of uncertainty. What if that was _exactly_ what the Captain was here for? Their interlude in the conservatory had been cut short and, having been left wanting, and since Mycroft had given him encouragement, doubtless he wanted to pick up where they had left off and gain...satisfaction.

Mycroft wondered how he felt about that.

Excitement? Yes.

Trepidation? Of course.

Definite interest? That was there too- but tempered with a healthy amount of anxiety.

He wasn’t afraid of the Captain. Mycroft knew he would enjoy anything they did together. But he was grossly unprepared to handle this situation at the present. He’d thought, after Captain Lestrade’s acceptance of his proposition earlier, that he would be given more time before sensual demands were made upon his person. Time to organize his technique, as it were, and bolster his confidence so as to appear at ease and more like the assertive, experienced lover he knew the Captain wanted.

Clearly, he had been mistaken.

Captain Lestrade was here. Now. He had accepted Mycroft’s proposition and then snuck into his bedroom. That was all the proof Mycroft needed of his intentions.

He took a shaky breath, heart pounding so hard he felt almost lightheaded.

“I’m sorry.” Captain Lestrade drew Mycroft from his panicked thoughts, looking contrite. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Your Highness. I promise. I’ll leave if you want. Only…after earlier, I had to see you.”

_I had to see you…_

Mycroft risked a glance up- his heart skipped a beat at the look in the Captain’s eyes- and he quickly looked away. His eyes fell on his bed. It had been made up earlier that morning with crisp corners and covered with a smooth, pristine expanse of bedding. Untouched and virginal. Mycroft’s body flushed hot all over and he dropped his eyes back to the floor.

_No, I. I want. Very much._

_I had to see you…_

“You’re in my bedroom. I think you may skip the formalities.” Mycroft murmured and Gregory snorted, his posture relaxing now that he knew Mycroft wasn’t going to kick him out, and likewise, something inside Mycroft loosened at Gregory’s amusement.

“Yeah. I suppose so. I know this is extremely unusual, but after what happened earlier, I thought you would understand why I had to see you.” He frowned at Mycroft’s silence, and kept talking, hesitant. “But if I’ve made you uncomfortable- or offended you- I’m so sorry. Really. I can leave…”

“That won’t be…I’m…It’s. Fine. That you’re here.” Mycroft stumbled over the admission. He wasn’t lying. It _was_ fine that Gregory was here.

Only he felt so woefully unprepared to have sex with him.

Anxious energy vibrated in the pit of his stomach. He desperately didn’t want to displease Gregory this early in their arrangement. Mycroft had counted on having the Alpha as his own for at least a few months, and he didn’t want to repulse him and make him regret it- or call the entire thing off. He didn’t want this to end before it even began. He wanted Gregory to know that he was absolutely welcome here.

That was a common courtesy lent to a lover, wasn’t it? Unfettered access to one’s bedroom for carnal relations?

“I’m glad you’re here.” Mycroft felt like a fool. Wasn’t there something better to say to his forthcoming lover? Something enticing and sexually suggestive which would let Gregory know that _he_ knew what they were about to do?

Nothing came to mind.

Mycroft despaired.

Gregory’s eyebrows went up all the same, as if Mycroft had said something provocative. “You are?”

He was?

“Yes. I am.” Mycroft took a deep breath. It hitched going down and made his lungs feel twice their normal size. “What…what is it that you would like?”

Mycroft had heard an Omega prostitute say that once in one of the Southern provinces. She’d called out as the soldiers rode past, her hip cocked to the side and breasts almost totally exposed, a saucy smirk on her face as she watched the Alphas pass with a predatory gaze. She had followed up the question- which Mycroft supposed had been delivered a bit less formally than he’d done- with a suggestively purred ‘gorgeous.’

He wasn’t daring enough to say that to Gregory.

But _surely_ Gregory couldn’t miss the innuendo laden in the statement.

“Well. It’s as I said earlier.” He stepped forward, offering Mycroft a small smile, the warmth of which he felt all the way down his body. “I wanted to speak with you about what happened in the conservatory. Between us.”

Gregory _was_ here for an assignation.

Mycroft was thankful that he was still leaned against the door, otherwise he would have sunk to the carpet as his knees went weak with the realization. And what an embarrassment that would have been. Especially now, when Gregory was here, standing in front of him, about to…to…

“Of course.” Mycroft did his best to act calm, shamming knowledgeable sophistication as well as he could. His palms were slick with sweat. “I expected that. You. To be here. About that.”

“You did?”

Mycroft nodded, wetting his lips nervously and Gregory’s eyes dropped to watch. No doubt he was remembering their kisses from earlier. Mycroft certainly was. His heart skipped another beat.

“Yes, I did.” He breathed and suddenly he was genuinely glad that Gregory was here wanting to have sex with him. Desiring him, even if it was only for sexual gratification. “I needed to see you as well.”

At that, he expected Gregory to move forward and kiss him as he’d done earlier. It was a very obvious invitation. Mycroft had basically told the Alpha he was ready for copulation.

But he slowly realized, from Gregory’s expectant look and pointed silence, his eyes searching Mycroft’s, waiting…that _he_ was expected to do something.

Mycroft faltered.

He didn’t know what to do. His eyes darted around the room, to his bed and back to Gregory, then back down to the floor, thinking fast. He supposed that he could move forward and pull Gregory into a kiss. But he had done that earlier, and he didn’t want to be boring and predictable. Gregory was used to experienced Omegas who knew their way around a knot, as his mother had pointed out, and Mycroft didn’t think he would appreciate the stupidly innocent overture again.

But what else could he do?

He couldn’t just _ask_ for Gregory to copulate with him. The words were stuck in his throat and wouldn’t come out. Mycroft had never said something like that to anyone. He hadn’t even said it to Gregory when the Alpha had shared his heat last year, fucking him so hard that Mycroft had been sore for days afterward.

The silence stretched between them. Horribly unbroken.

And the longer it went on, the faster Mycroft’s heart beat. He was almost sick with fear. He didn’t know what to say or do and soon Gregory would get disgusted with him and his inability to initiate sexual relations and leave and Mycroft would have lost his only chance to be with him. He didn’t want that to happen. He wanted Gregory. He had never wanted something so much in his entire life as he did the Alpha standing across the room from him.

The same Alpha who was clearly starting to lose patience with him, frowning-

Panicking, Mycroft pushed away from the door. “I promise I’ll be able to satisfy you sexually.” He blurted and Gregory’s eyes went wide.

“What?”

“I will be able to satisfy you.” Mycroft repeated, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He remembered the way Gregory had looked last week, that morning in the barracks, covered in the scent of Omega heat and looking veritably _fucked out,_ as the phrase was. Mycroft could do that too.

He could.

“I’m not…Despite what you may think, I’m not a complete innocent. I know how to…give you pleasure.” Which wasn’t a lie. A half-truth at worst. “I know that during our time spent together last year my contributions during our couplings were nonexistent. That had to be very distasteful for you.” Mycroft didn’t understand how it could have been anything else. The memory alone was a keen embarrassment sharp as any blade. He had just _laid there_ and let Gregory _take_ him and done literally _nothing_ in return…

“Since you agreed to my proposition, I want to assure you,” He continued formally, lungs too full of air, making his voice quiver with every syllable, “that as we embark on this sexual understanding, I will not continue to be a selfish bed-partner. I am perfectly capable of bringing you to orgasm...in a variety of ways.” Another half-truth. Variety was perhaps stretching it just a bit. Mycroft could think of two ways. Three, if he were feeling very daring.

He remembered the way Gregory had sounded when he came, the gasping groan he’d made as he shoved his knot inside Mycroft’s body, triggering his own release. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to be responsible for making Gregory feel that way. And he would. Not that he had ever brought another person to orgasm, but Mycroft was intelligent. He didn’t think it was beyond the realm of his expertise.

“Mycroft. Um. That…” Gregory cleared his throat, looking even more uneasy than before. Mycroft’s heart sank at his strained smile. “I…Well. Thank you. For that.”

Abashed, Mycroft wanted to cry. He was so stupid. Why had he ever thought this was a good idea? He’d known his mother was right: he had nothing to offer an Alpha like Gregory Lestrade. It had been ridiculous of him to think that he did.

He should have been smarter than to believe such a laughable idea. Gregory had been with scores of Omegas all of whom were worlds more experienced than Mycroft would ever hope to be, easier to bed, and doubtlessly when Gregory got them there, a better, more capable fuck. He should just end this pathetic charade now. He should inform Gregory that he had changed his mind. The Alpha would undoubtedly be grateful for the reprieve; thankful he wouldn’t be forced to go through the tiresome ordeal of bedding the Ice Prince of Northumbria.

Mycroft’s heart broke as he said farewell to the idea of being close to Gregory again and pretending, for just a little while, that he had him as his own. He forced himself to open his mouth, the words to call the entire thing off on the tip of his tongue-

But what if…

The idea flashed through him like lightning.

He couldn’t.

Could he?

The plan formed, tentative and vague. He’d never done anything like that before. He didn’t really know if he could. Mycroft glanced at Gregory again and something of his anxiety must have shown on his face because he suddenly looked concerned.

“Mycroft…are you- Is anything wr-”

“Would you like for me to show you?” Mycroft was proud his voice came out firm and assured, pitched low, just as he’d wanted. It betrayed nothing of the riot his emotions were currently going through. So far, so good.

He forced his legs to propel him closer to Gregory- and closer to the bed. “I confess that I’m rather stupidly ignorant, and not exactly sure how one goes about these things.” He smirked, giving a self-deprecating laugh and offering Gregory to share in the joke, even if it was at his expense.

He didn’t. His face remained impassive, eyes flicking over Mycroft. A line appeared between his brows as he frowned. Mycroft’s forced smile wavered.

“Your…your attentions at the inn…and earlier today…were very pleasing to me.” Mycroft let his gaze travel over Gregory’s body in what he hoped was a suggestive way. “I would like to return the favor in as advantageous a way for you as possible.”

Gregory’s eyes gravitated from Mycroft to the bed. He still said nothing.

“Please will you let me, Gregory? Please?” Mycroft forced the words out. They tasted like ash on his tongue. But he could do this. He could play the part- “Please? If you are agreeable,” He continued, but his poise was rapidly starting to dwindle. “I- I would make certain you were very satisfied.” He gave another smirk, putting as much flirtation into it as he could, and instead of looking intrigued, Gregory suddenly looked furious.

“Stop it.” He snapped, jaw clenched tight and Mycroft experienced a dizzyingly sick swoop in his stomach.

“St-stop what?”

“This.”

Mycroft blinked rapidly, trying to reorient himself and save the situation. “I…I don’t- I thought. Isn’t this. Why you’re here?” He choked. He couldn’t breathe properly and his chest was too tight. It hurt.

Gregory cocked his head to the side, expression wary. “Why I’m here?”

“The…conservatory? What happened?” Mycroft ventured, but when Gregory still looked confused he explained in shaky fits and starts, his face hot with shame. “You accepted my proposition…so I thought…you wanted to…engage in coitus?”

* * *

 

Gods above.

That wasn’t why he was here _at all._

The only thing Greg had been able to think of the entire afternoon was finding a private moment to speak with Mycroft about the horrific things the Queen had said about him in the conservatory. The accusations wouldn’t let Greg rest until he spoke with Mycroft and refuted every single godsdamn one.

He’d known that an opportunity wouldn’t happen that evening. Between the formal dinner which would take place under the watchful eyes of the Queen and the crowded gala which would probably last until dawn, there would be too many people around to speak freely. And Greg had doubted that Mycroft would agree to meet him somewhere private so he could explain. Mycroft seemed reluctant to talk about what had happened, or even acknowledge it. He would want to forget, and silently encourage Greg to as well.

But Greg couldn’t let it go.

Perhaps sneaking into the Prince’s bedroom had been a step too far.

It was an egregious breach of etiquette. Greg was highly aware that he was the only Alpha who had ever entered Mycroft’s bedroom and, from the way the Prince had been blushing the entire time, he was aware of it too.

Greg felt as if he hadn’t been given a choice, though.

That was what he had argued to himself as, feeling like a criminal, he snuck up servant’s stairs and ducked down rarely used passages: the last time something similar had occurred between himself and the Prince, Greg hadn’t been able to speak to him about it for an entire year. Mycroft had retreated and put so much distance between them that Greg hadn’t been able to bridge the gap and fix the problem. He didn’t want that to happen again.

They’d made progress that morning, of a sort. Mycroft had talked and smiled let Greg see _him_ again. It had confirmed everything Greg already knew he felt about the Prince, and he’d been encouraged by the way Mycroft looked at him. Laughed. Grabbing and kissing and responding and-

Gods above. Greg wanted to have the Prince like that again so badly he was almost sick with want. He didn’t want to go back to the way things had been.

It still made him feel guilty, sneaking into the Prince’s bedroom, but what the Queen had said about him- and his treatment of Mycroft- was unfounded and wrong. Greg did not want Mycroft believing that about him. He couldn’t stand the idea of it. He had still doubted that the means justified the end and that he was right in sneaking into Mycroft’s bedroom…

But now, Greg was fervently glad that he had.

With Mycroft looking so young and innocent and nervous, one arm wrapped around the post of his bed, clinging to it as he played at being a slut (and not a very convincing one) and offered himself to Greg while the bruise his mother had given him still decorated his cheek…Greg knew he’d made the right decision.

_“The Captain cares nothing for you.”_

_“All you would be to him now is an easy fuck. I’m sure somewhere secretly he already thinks of you in such a way…”_

_“What could you ever possibly hope to offer to a man like the Captain? Besides being a silly, gasping Omega eager to be used?”_

_“Please will you let me, Gregory? Please?”_

Greg stared at Mycroft who still hovered near the bed, anxiously watching him. He didn’t know what to do. He felt insulted. Outraged that Mycroft would actually believe his mother. That he would think so lowly of Greg, after everything he’d done for him, to think he had to play at being a whore, a silly, gasping Omega, pleading to be used to make Greg want him.

But at the same time, he was very, very conflicted.

Because he knew Mycroft had never done anything like this before. He was awkward and inept and clearly out of his depth, even when he was trying to be suggestive. Especially when he was trying to be suggestive, Greg thought sardonically. His mother had been pouring her brand of poison into his ears for gods knew how long and she clearly had a large influence over him- as was to be expected.

And Greg himself hadn’t exactly been the best example, he thought, stumbling into his bedroom smelling like another Omega’s heat which Mycroft had inadvertently witnessed…

But that didn’t mean he wanted Mycroft to-

Greg took a deep, deep breath, reaching for patience and chose his words with extreme care. “Mycroft. I hope you do not believe the things your mother said in the conservatory concerning my thoughts and feelings toward you.”

Mycroft’s eyes dropped to the carpet and a delicate pink tinge worked its way across his cheeks. It threw his bruise into ugly relief. Greg hated the sight of it.

“I wish you hadn’t heard but…please, don’t worry yourself over it. I do not expect, or demand, your affection, Captain.” He said softly, so low Greg almost didn’t hear him. “I don’t mean to insult you, only to let you know that I anticipate nothing further from you than physical gratification. You need not worry that you will have to pretend something you do not feel, or convince me of anything. I will not be offended because...I know you are a good man, and a good Alpha, and you have already done so much for me. Many things I’m sure you would not have otherwise desired to do because I know your opinion of me.”

Mycroft bit his lip while Greg struggled to control his rising temper. He was shaking with it, but Mycroft wasn’t done.

“Which is what I told you in the conservatory, if you remember." He continued, voice barely above a whisper. "It speaks well of you that you are able to put aside personal opinion and…Our arrangement need only be mutually satisfactory, without emotional strings attached, as it were, and therefore what my mother said should have no bearing-“

“ _I do not think of you as an easy fuck_!” Greg snarled, starting forward angrily, and Mycroft went pale, shrinking back against the bed post.

“I have _nothing_ but godsdamned respect for you and I have _always_ treated you with deference and admiration and I have not-” Greg watched as Mycroft’s eyes went wider and wider with every word, the pink tinging his cheeks deepening to red as Greg stepped closer- “Done all of that for you to think I’m some sort of arsehole Alpha who thinks you’re a pretty toy for me to fuck when I want to get my knot wet when the mood strikes while you play the silly, gasping Omega.”

Greg breathed heavily, all the words he’d wanted to say for ages finally breaking free. He couldn’t seem to stop them.

“I have given you _everything_ , Mycroft. Everything. And I’ve done it to the best of my abilities…or I thought I had.” He snapped. “Tell me. Tell me where I’ve failed you.”

“You- you h-haven’t f-failed me. G-Gregory. I-“

“Clearly I have if you think of me in such a degrading way.”

“I don’t-“

“Every _godsdamn word_ your mother said was a lie.” Greg cut off Mycroft’s feeble protests. He didn’t want to hear them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry. “I did _not_ lose respect for you after what happened last year. I helped you through your heat with as much honor and consideration as possible, taking care of you because that’s what you needed, and I didn’t think less of you because of it. I felt more, if anything, because you were so strong-willed, even in pain and you treated _me_ with respect and not just as some knot to get yourself off with.” Greg suddenly realized how close he was to Mycroft, crowding him and pressing the Omega against the bed post. Invading his space. He didn’t try and push him away though. He gripped at the wood behind him, staring up at Greg in astonishment, and Greg heard him take in a shuddery breath, his lips parting, nostrils flaring, and he would almost have said Mycroft was scenting him but-

“I _do not_ think of you as an easy fuck. I _do not_ think that if I press my advantage I can have you on your back with your legs spread like a cheap whore. That is not who you are. It doesn’t matter if you’re an Omega, or that I saw you in heat or that I fucked you during it. I don’t give a godsdamn what your mother said. It _did not_ change my opinion of you for the worst.” Mycroft stared up at him, silent, and Greg kept going.

“The Captain,” He sneered, mimicking the way the Queen referred to him and distantly wondering if he were breaking some law and not really giving a damn, “ _does_ care for you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t serve you. I wouldn’t risk my life for you. I wouldn’t put up with your godsdamn snotty attitude and hatefulness every fucking day and still like you at the end of it. What she said- that _isn’t_ who you are and that _isn’t_ who I want you to be. And that is _not_ who I am and I will not allow you to demean both me and yourself by acting like a silly, gasping Omega because you think that’s what I want because I don’t!”

There was a ringing silence in the wake of Greg’s tirade. He breathed heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly, and wondered what Mycroft would do. He expected Mycroft to push him away. Probably slap him. Maybe throw him out of his bedroom. Have him arrested. Greg honestly did give a fuck. Saying all he'd wanted to had been more than worth it. He felt fierce vindication and nothing could diminish that. 

But Mycroft did none of those things.

Greg was unprepared for the Prince to sway forward, letting go of the bed post, and clumsily press his lips against his own.

It wasn’t a very good kiss. He half-missed Greg’s lips and kissed more of his chin than anything- and it only lasted a split second before Greg grabbed his arms and pulled him away-

“What-“

“I do think very highly of you, Gregory.” Mycroft whispered, endearingly awkward, the deep red blush still staining his cheeks. “I apologize for...I. What I.” He visibly struggled for words, his gorgeous personality on full display: the young man who was foible and _real_ and the same man Greg had fallen in love with. He was reminded of earlier in the conservatory and the way Mycroft had-

“I'm sorry. Truly. I did not mean to give the impression that I thought of you in a disparaging way. I think very highly of you.” Mycroft continued. “More than anyone else, it would seem. I trust you...implicitly. It pains me to imagine you think differently. And I…” His eyes dropped to Greg’s lips and visibly darkened. “I was not pretending. Not entirely. I confess what my mother said may have...momentarily...but I...I...have always desired you, Gregory. Always.”

Greg could feel the warmth of Mycroft’s skin under his hands, and while there wasn’t even a hint of his scent, he knew it was there, hidden beneath the layers of fabric. He thought of the way Mycroft had reached for him in the conservatory- before all of the hateful things the Queen had said. The way Mycroft had kissed and responded and wanted more…

He delicately brushed his lips against Mycroft’s, the barest of pressures, and felt him shudder.

“Oh…” Mycroft sighed, eyes slipping closed and Greg released his hold on his arms, substituting it instead for cupping Mycroft’s face and drawing him into another kiss.

* * *

 

“You’re being dramatic, dear. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that.”

Sherlock morosely accepted his cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson with a grimace. His face felt blotchy and hot. He’d stopped crying ages ago- Mrs. Hudson hovering and being tedious and asking what was wrong the entire time- but his eyes still itched. He rubbed at them, sniffling. He’d finally managed to tell her what had happened, through hitching breaths, and been appropriately petted.

Now, he was taking her standard remedy: tea.

Sherlock highly doubted it would help in this situation.

“I’m not being dramatic. And you weren’t there. You don’t know.” He was determined to be miserable and annoyed that his nanny was trying to cheer him out of it. “I acted like a complete moron in front of the entire Court.” _And in front of John_ , he silently added.

_“Welcome to Northumbria.”_

Sherlock’s stomach turned over and he hastily set his tea aside.

“Where do you think I’ve been the last few hours, young man?” Mrs. Hudson settled across from Sherlock with her own cup of tea and gave him a stern look. “Of course I was there. Silly boy. As if I would go to all the trouble of raising you and changing your nappies and taking care of you, putting up with all your terrible humors and never getting any thanks for it- then going through the torture of getting you ready for the ceremony this morning- nearly drove me mad. Thought we’d never get done. Then searching high and low for you over the entire palace with my hip and there were so many stairs…And you think I’d miss it?” She scoffed. “I was there.”

“I didn’t see you.” Sherlock muttered sullenly. He picked up his cup again and took a sip, then grimaced. The tea tasted perfect. Just as he liked it. Instead of making him feel better, it made him even more annoyed.

“Well, you wouldn’t have, would you? You were too preoccupied with the ceremony…up there on the dais looking so handsome and grown up…and meeting that dashing young Alpha.” Mrs. Hudson’s eyes glittered cheekily over her teacup at Sherlock.

At the reference to John, Sherlock’s stomach tried to tie itself into knots. It was very uncomfortable. He put his tea down again, no longer thirsty.

Every time he thought of John- the way he had looked and sounded, how it felt when he touched him- Sherlock felt odd. His chest got tight which made it hard to breathe. The skin of his wrist still tingled. He rubbed his thumb over it, trying to determine why.

He hoped John hadn’t given him body lice.

“You did so well.” Mrs. Hudson beamed at him, and Sherlock lost his temper.

“No, I didn’t!” He snarled, banging his fist on the padded arm of his chair. It made a dull thump which was less than satisfactory. “Stop saying that! I acted like an idiot in front of everyone! I had one thing to do- one thing!- and I didn’t even do that right! I didn’t do the bow properly. The stupid sodding bow that I’ve been practicing for months that even a child could do and I messed it up! I got nervous. I couldn’t stop shaking and he- John. He saw.” Sherlock took a deep breath and forged on. “Then he…then there was the scenting and it was our first conversation and I didn’t know what to say and-“

_“Welcome to Northumbria.”_

“I didn’t know how to get out of it. How to get back to the dais without looking like a fool.” Sherlock finished, slumping back in his chair, his eyes stinging and he pressed the heels of his hands against them hard. He was not going to cry again. “Now Mycroft’s mad at me.” He mumbled. “John thinks I’m an imbecile. It’s not…” He sighed his confession, knowing he could tell Mrs. Hudson and she wouldn’t make fun of him. “It’s not how I wanted things to go.”

Mrs. Hudson had stayed calm while he raged- inured to his outbursts- steadily sipping her tea through pursed lips. One did not raise Sherlock Holmes from the time he was a baby without gaining nerves of steel. Once he was finished, she took another sip, giving Sherlock a firm look over the rim of her cup.

“You can say what you like, but that’s not what I saw. I saw a very handsome young man meeting his future Alpha with poise and dignity- and everyone was so impressed with your beautifully offered token scenting. No one expected it. It’s not been done in this Court in ages- and of course everyone knows how protective your brother is. No one thought you would have even been told how to do it.” Her eyes glittered mischievously. “Aren’t you glad we practiced?”

Sherlock wished he’d practiced more. “I didn’t know what to do at the end.” He persisted, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself, love. That Alpha Prince looked just as nervous.”

Sherlock had to concede the point. She wasn’t wrong. John _had_ been very tense. He’d hid it better than Sherlock, but it’d still been easy for Sherlock to tell that he didn’t like all the attention during the ceremony. John’s unnaturally rigid posture and the tightness around his eyes belied his unhurried walk and steady hands and soft smile.

“He doesn’t like crowds- or being the center of attention.” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “He’s not used to it. Mycroft told me that he doesn’t draw notice to himself back in Scotland. He said that his father’s Court was…too dangerous for him.”

There were two Alphas, Sherlock remembered, in King Watson’s Court. Not all that unusual, but Mycroft said things were done differently in Scotland than Northumbria. John and his sister had been pitted against each other since they were children, and Harriet disliked John. She was the firstborn and heir to the throne and suspected her brother of plotting against her. When John had attempted to join the Scottish army to secure a place for himself, rumors spread through the Court that Harriet mistrusted his intentions. The rumors said that she would see John dead once their father died and she had the crown. Rumors, Mycroft said, King Watson had not involved himself in, silently allowing to grow.

Harriet expected John to fight her for the throne, but John had few supporters and even fewer alliances.

“John knows he doesn’t stand a chance. He’d be a fool to try and take the throne.” Mycroft had said, in answer to Sherlock’s silent question. But when Sherlock asked who John’s supporters were, Mycroft had gone tight-lipped and refused to answer.

John’s very existent in his father’s Court relied on keeping his head down and not drawing too much attention to himself. That morning’s ceremony had to have been torture for him.

“That may be. He hid it well that he was nervous, but I could tell.” Mrs. Hudson said wisely, cutting into Sherlock’s thoughts, and he rolled his eyes.

“How could _you_ tell?”

“You don’t raise a bratty little boy and half-raise his bratty older brother without learning a thing or two about boys.” She declared. “John Watson was just as scared as you were- if not more so. Because you’re at home, aren’t you? He’s hundreds of miles from home, in a strange place with strange people who don’t speak his language- and he doesn’t know anyone. He’ll have to win the Court over to gain their respect- and you’ve already done that, haven’t you? Born and raised in the Court, even if you’re not seen often, everyone already respects you. John, on the other hand...he’ll have to prove himself to a lot of people. The whole country really. That he’s trustworthy and smart and competent. It’s a daunting task to give any young man. Even an Alpha Prince.”

Sherlock hadn’t really thought of that until now. He knew Mycroft and his mother’s plan for him and his future, and he knew how much Mycroft had already sacrificed to keep him safe in Northumbria. But Sherlock had never given the alternative much thought. That if Mycroft were the Crown Prince, Sherlock would be forced to leave his home, just like John. He would join his betrothed’s Court and meet strangers and prove himself, far from home and all alone, with no support and no Mycroft…

The idea made panic beat at his chest. Sherlock couldn’t imagine what it felt like for John. He’d been so relieved that Mycroft found a suitable Alpha to betroth him to, that he’d never stopped to think of how the Alpha would feel. Even if John and his sister didn’t get along, surely there was someone in Scotland John had left behind that he would miss.

Sherlock ran back through the ceremony, picturing John again and turning over the situation from a new angle-

“You need to get some sleep.” Mrs. Hudson said when Sherlock tried to stifle a yawn behind his hand. “You need to be well-rested. You’ve still got the whole evening ahead, you know.”

Sherlock sighed. He’d been up since dawn and after crying his eyes were dry and tried. Going to sleep sounded wonderful. But…

“I can’t sleep in these clothes.”

Mrs. Hudson regarded him thoughtfully. “No, but it would take too long to get you out of them and then back in before dinner.” She plucked at Sherlock’s sleeves. “Maybe…I could loosen the laces a bit and see if we can make you more comfortable. How does that sound?”

It didn’t sound comfortable, but Sherlock was tired enough that he would try.

* * *

 

It was a relief when the laces loosened under Mrs. Hudson’s quick hands. Sherlock hadn’t realized how much pressure was being exerted on his body until it was gone and he took a deep breath, enjoying the sudden freedom of movement. He already dreaded when the laces would be tightened again. He made a face. And Mycroft wore things like this all the time.

Mrs. Hudson closed the curtains, pitching his room into a comfortable grey gloom and Sherlock started to crawl onto his bed, trailing yards of laces...then thought better of it and reversed course. He padded softly over to where Mrs. Hudson was picking up their tea things.

“Thank you.” He murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before running away and flinging himself facedown on the bed, burying his face in the pillow.

"You're welcome, dear." 

Sherlock, embarrassed, pretended not to hear her. He snuggled into the soft duvet, trying to get comfortable and not strangle himself in the laces. He resolutely closed his eyes, and unbidden, the face of John Watson materialized behind his eyelids. John with his blue eyes and handsome face and perfect features. His smile which had been directed at Sherlock and his friendly eyes. His tender touch and courtly manners as he scented Sherlock’s wrist, placing a kiss there which still tingled.

They were betrothed. One day, John was going to scent him. And not on his wrist. They would be married.

They were Alpha and Omega, and that meant they would be a bonded _and_ mated pair.

Sherlock pressed his face harder into the pillow, a giddy swoop fluttering through his stomach, and it was hard for him to sleep…but eventually, the stress of the day caught up to him and he nodded off.

* * *

 

It was ridiculous to say he didn’t know what he was doing.

He and Gregory had already fucked.

Twice.

Mycroft had assumed their coupling would be like that again- rough, hard, and fast and incredibly pleasurable- and that of course he would enjoy it.

But this was new. Different, though not in a bad way.

Gregory’s lips moved over Mycroft’s, gentle and soft, as if they had all the time in the world, while his hands cupped Mycroft’s cheeks, bracketing to either side of his face, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. His touch was lighter over Mycroft’s bruise, for which he was grateful, and for some reason that, the proof of how careful Gregory was of him, made sparks scatter beneath Mycroft’s skin. He released a shaky breath, fisting his hands in Gregory’s tunic.

It felt sinful to do this here, in his own bedroom, with the late afternoon sun shining brightly through the windows while Gregory knelt over him. Mycroft didn’t remember how they’d wound up on his bed, but he was not opposed to the change in position. He’d never had a man in his bed before, but he had spent an inordinately large amount of time dreaming of having Gregory Lestrade in his bed. And now he was here...and there was a sturdy, locked door between them and the outside world.

He was surprised at how much he actually wanted this- sex with Gregory. The Alpha’s hands on his skin again, moving him as they copulated. The warmth of his body and the smell of his scent all around. If they had sex here, Mycroft realized with a happy thrill, he could sleep in the sheets that night and they would still smell like Gregory.

All of the anxiety from earlier was gone- shouted away by a wonderfully angry Captain Lestrade- and Mycroft let himself relax, keeping his eyes closed so he could memorize the way Gregory’s lips felt and how his stubble just slightly rasped against his face. It was perfect.

Hesitantly, he moved his hands, which had been awkwardly gripping at Gregory’s clothes, up, sliding his fingers through the Alpha’s hair as he’d wanted to do earlier. He grasped at the strands, threading his fingers through them, and it made his stomach swoop, as if he’d jumped from a ledge, when Gregory inhaled sharply against his lips. He gasped when he felt his tongue sweep across the seam of his lips and he opened, wanting more.

“Oh, gods…” Gregory’s curse was breathed into Mycroft’s mouth and he shivered with the feel of it as his tongue stroked along his own, making his skin prickle. The kisses suddenly grew faster, Gregory slanting his lips over his, and excitement built at the wildness of it. His thumbs were under his chin, tipping his face up so he could plunder Mycroft’s mouth and-

Mycroft huffed short, desperate little breaths through his nose. It was getting harder to breathe.

It was also getting increasingly harder to keep from moaning.

Mycroft was terrified that he’d sound ridiculous and embarrass himself, but when Gregory sucked at his bottom lip, taking it between his and sweeping his tongue over it- Mycroft’s control fractured.

“ _Hnngh_ -” He didn’t even recognize his own voice and Gregory froze above him, suddenly tense. Mycroft hoped he hadn’t disgusted him. “A-apologies. I- I didn’t mean to-”

Gregory’s lips crashing against his ended Mycroft’s apologies and it was only when he moaned against his mouth that Mycroft realized he was gripping at the Alpha’s hair, keeping him from moving away as he frantically responded. Gregory shifted, his leg slipping between Mycroft’s and he tugged harder, wanting him even closer.

He was still tightly laced into his clothes and the fabric felt constricting. Strangling him. He could feel every place he was confined and it was almost hard to draw each breath.

Mycroft broke their kiss with a whine to pant for air. Gregory, not deterred, moved to kiss at his neck- but the biggest problem was below Mycroft’s waist. He had never attempted a full erection in his ceremonial clothes before. A glaring oversight. The occasion had never occurred…so he hadn’t thought…

With the fabric so close-fitting, the laces pulled as tight as possible and knotted, there was nowhere for his cock to expand.

It _hurt_.

Mycroft whimpered, shifting his hips restlessly to try and relieve the pressure. He thought about reaching down and undoing the laces himself, but he _couldn’t_. He couldn’t undress himself so wantonly in front of Gregory. Especially the laces on the front of his _trousers_.

Gregory sucked at the skin beneath Mycroft’s ear, soft so as to not leave a mark, and it felt so good. Mycroft grabbed his arm, going rigid with discomfort when his cock tensed unsuccessfully against implacable fabric.

“What’s wrong?” Gregory’s voice so close to his ear made him shudder- which did not help the dilemma he was currently in. Mycroft whimpered again.

“I…” How could he explain what was wrong? The words were stuck in his throat, blocked with embarrassment. Mycroft licked his lips and tried again. “I...I’m sorry. Just...It hurts-”

Gregory jerked away from him, moving up and away so fast that Mycroft was left blinking up at the canopy over his bed in surprise before he even realized what had happened.

“What hurts? What’s wrong?” Gregory demanded, and Mycroft couldn't say it. He closed his eyes in mortification, fluttering his hands in what he hoped was a demonstrative way at the front of his trousers.

“I…I…It’s…I can’t…the- the fabric…and laces…and when you...you do that. It...it makes me...and…it hurts...”

Gregory’s only answer was silence and Mycroft opened his eyes, hoping he hadn’t disgusted the Alpha by being so silly, to find him staring down at him, emotions in his face that made Mycroft knot his fingers in the bed sheets, his pulse skipping rapidly.

“Do you want me to help you undress, Mycroft?”

Oh, yes. Yes, please.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble…” He began, and one side of Gregory’s mouth curved up in incredulous amusement. Mycroft swallowed thickly.

“Yes? Please.” __

* * *

 

When Sherlock woke from his nap, the sun had already set and a few stars were appearing in the purple sky, twinkling brightly. He felt better. More refreshed and with a clearer head. He accepted another cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson and held still as she tightened the laces on his clothes, cinching him back in for the long night ahead.

Sherlock scowled at himself in the mirror, then at the door to the hallway between his and Mycroft’s bedrooms. He needed to apologize to Mycroft. He would honestly rather _not_. But…

He had been rather mean to him today. Mycroft had done the best he could to find someone nice for Sherlock to be betrothed to and he had answered all of Sherlock’s questions as well as he could in the lead up to the ceremony. Sherlock wanted him to know that he was grateful.

He wasn’t going to apologize for the token scenting, though, he resolved as, with a final pat to his curls, Mrs. Hudson pushed him in the direction of the door.

He dragged himself down the hallway, reluctance making his steps heavy. He didn't look forward to Mycroft’s haughty "I told you so" expression. Sherlock _hated_ that expression. And he was sure that Mycroft was probably still angry with him about what had happened at the ceremony, but Sherlock wasn’t going to apologize for that. He wasn’t.

If Mycroft wanted, he could stay mad at him for the rest of the night. Sherlock didn’t care.

He really, really didn't.

He knocked and waited politely for Mycroft to give him permission to come in. He was here to apologize after all, and Mycroft always hated him barging into his room without invitation. When he heard Mycroft’s reply, he pushed open the door- and stopped short, confused.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it _look_ like I’m doing?” Mycroft snapped, all his concentration bent on re-lacing the sleeves of his tunic as quickly as possible. Sherlock scowled, glancing at the bed where the covers were in complete disarray and then back to his brother.

“Did you take a nap too?”

“What? No, why- Oh. I mean. Yes. Yes, I did. I just didn’t mean to…sleep so long.” He muttered distractedly, fingers feverish on his sleeves. Sherlock didn’t blame him. They were going to be very late.

“Why did you get undressed?” He demanded peevishly.

“Hm?”

“Why did you get undressed?” Sherlock repeated. He hadn’t been allowed to undress from the ceremonial clothes and it wasn’t fair that Mycroft had and he told Mycroft as much.

“I did. Because. I can. I can redo my clothes better and faster than you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Clearly, you _can’t_ because otherwise you’d be ready.” He snapped back, all thoughts of an apology dying. His brother didn’t deserve one. “We’re supposed to be downstairs right now, you know.”

“I know. I know.” Mycroft tied off one sleeve and started on the other. He was flushed, hair sticking up somewhat, and looked so harried that Sherlock actually felt a little bad for him.

“Do you want me to go and get Mrs. Hudson?” He asked, realizing what a good brother he was by making the offer.

“What?”

“Do you want me to go and get Mrs. Hudson to help you dress?”

“No. Why would I need her? I’m fine...if I could just get this...godsdamn thing...tied…”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Hm?” Mycroft frowned. “What makes you think something is wrong?”

As if it weren’t obvious. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Your trousers.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mycroft growled. “Sherlock. If you’re not going to be helpful-“

Sherlock pointed. “ _Your trousers._ You’ve missed a couple of laces.”

It was very odd. Mycroft was meticulous about his clothes, and he never messed up the laces unless there was something wrong. Mycroft looked to where he was pointing and blanched.

“Oh, _fuck_!” He finally tied off the remaining laces at his sleeve and twisted to look at his leg again. The missed places were high up on his thigh. He would have to unlace the entire leg in order to fix it. They both knew he didn’t have the time. Even now, their mother was waiting for them downstairs.

“It is noticeable?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not really. No one’s going to be looking at your thighs anyway.”

Mycroft huffed, giving his trousers one last look, before smoothing his hair with quick movements, moving towards the door as he did. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

“That's what I-“

“No time. Just go.” Mycroft rudely shoved him out the door and Sherlock decided then and there that Mycroft was an absolute arse and he wouldn’t speak to him the rest of the evening.

They didn’t run, but they did walk quicker than normal along the corridor and then thundered down the stairs as fast as possible. Sherlock hoped his silence was pointed enough that Mycroft noticed, but the night was still young. He had all the time he needed to make his brother feel terrible for treating him as he'd done.

They arrived on the wide landing downstairs out of breath and red-cheeked, and Sherlock slapped at Mycroft when he tried to smooth his curls back into place.

“Get off!” He yelled- then promptly got mad at himself. From _this moment forward_ , he resolved, he would not speak to Mycroft.

As usual, Captain Lestrade was waiting for them at the bottom of the staircase and Sherlock darted ahead, wanting to tell his side of why they were late before Mycroft could. He was certain his brother would in some way make it sound like it was Sherlock's fault.

“We’re late because Mycroft overslept.” He declared, and Captain Lestrade looked past him to Mycroft, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Captain.” Mycroft murmured, and Lestrade dropped into his short bow.

“Your Highness.”

“We weren’t late because of me this time.” Sherlock pointed out again. “This time it was all because Mycroft stayed _in bed_ too long.” He crowed and received a pinch from his brother in retaliation.

“Would you shut up?” He hissed, blushing, and Sherlock took a savage pleasure in ignoring him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with John's past and is where the underage sex is discussed. There is nothing explicit, it is only mentioned.
> 
> Also, I would think that it would be an odd situation to be in, betrothed to someone, and there would be lots of thoughts which would go through your head. IMO, it would be natural to imagine the future, which is what John does here...mainly because it unnerves him.

The quiet murmur of voices from the other side of the door was distracting. The delegation from Scotland discussing the betrothal ceremony, analyzing what had happened, even with their voices calm and carefully moderated, sounded like nails on a chalkboard to John. Screechy. Unbearable. It set his teeth on edge. He wanted to put his hands over his ears to block them out, but that was too childish. He settled for mashing a pillow over his face, wrapping it around his ears and pressing as hard as he could, inhaling the rich lavender smell of the soap the linens had been cleaned with, which was sweet but spicy, floral, like nothing he’d ever encountered before.

Just like everything else in Northumbria.

Not that he was complaining. John enjoyed new things, but experiencing so many in such a short span of time was _exhausting_.

Which brought him here: the lavish bedroom he’d been told was his own for as long as he remained in Northumbria. His stiff clothes from the ceremony were strewn all over the room leaving him in just his underclothes, and John himself was splayed on the bed, arms and legs akimbo. A warm breeze eased through the room, fluttering the curtains, and it felt so nice against his overheated skin. John sighed, trying to relax and ignore the voices which continued in a low hum.

He was supposed to be resting. There was a tedious, long evening ahead of him and he needed all his strength if he wanted to survive.

First, there was the family dinner where John assumed he would be stared at by everyone while he made awkward conversation with his future relatives. Eating food he didn’t recognize and the names of which he couldn’t pronounce. Struggling to remember the strict table etiquette Stamford had drilled into his head for months. Fervently praying that he didn’t make an arse of himself the entire time.

That torture would be followed by another.

The gala. A night of dancing and drinking and music which John had _oh-so-happily_ been assured would undoubtedly last until dawn.

_Thank the gods for that._

John screwed up his face in disgust. He dreaded the gala more than he did the family dinner, because that meant even more staring. Being the center of attention as he was led around and introduced to everyone in the Court. He would be weighed and measured. Judged by complete strangers. Each word out of his mouth would be analyzed, every move he made picked apart. John knew what happened this evening would be conversation fodder for the next few months. By the end of the year, not a single person in Northumbria would be ignorant of what happened at the betrothal gala tonight and how the Scottish Prince John had done such and such a terrible thing-

Uttered an embarrassing remark-

Showed his unfamiliarity with the Northumbrian Court when he bowed to a noble instead of inclining his head, demonstrating his total inferiority-

Tripped over his own feet-

He would be expected to dance.

John’s eyes flew open in horror. Cold dread lodged in his gut.

 _Please_ no. Gods, please _no_.

He didn’t know how to dance. Or well. He didn’t know how to dance _well_. Stamford had taught him a few of the more popular Northumbrian dances and John had practiced a fair amount before leaving Scotland, enduring Harry’s taunts as he moved through the unfamiliar paces. At the moment, he couldn’t remember one sodding step to any of them.

He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face before resolving to shove everything from his mind, to stop thinking, and do his best to relax. He needed to rest. He really, honestly did. Worrying over everything was pointless anyway. It only made him miserable. And it was going to happen anyway whether John wanted it to or not. Worrying wouldn’t help.

Still.

With his thoughts racing and stomach jumpy with anxiety, he couldn’t relax. It wasn’t possible. Even if he could put aside the terror inspired from the upcoming evening, there was still one thought that weighed heavy on his mind.

John hesitated, debating with himself…then resolutely closed his eyes and tried his best to imagine what it would be like married to the Crown Prince Sherlock Holmes.

It made him feel somewhat like a pervert. Sherlock was still a child. But John knew that he needed to think about it, because after today, they _would_ be married. Unless one of them died, their marriage was as inevitable as the changing of the seasons: slow to arrive, perhaps, but eventually becoming fully-fledged.

He would marry the Crown Prince Sherlock Holmes. The little boy he’d met that morning and whose wrist he had scented. Together, they would be Alpha and Omega, a bonded and mated pair.

It made John feel extremely uncomfortable.

He could still see Sherlock’s terrified expression and remember the way his small hand trembled when he reached out to him. The last thing in the world John had wanted to do when Stamford told him about the token scenting was actually be forced to scent the little boy. Sherlock was a child. Decent Alphas did not scent children. It didn’t matter that it was a token scenting. It still felt wrong.

John had lived in fear all morning that Sherlock would offer the token scenting and he’d be forced to scent him in front of the entire Court. And when he’d seen Sherlock step off the dais and make his way to him, knowing what was about to happen, John had wanted to _die_.

He’d thought about turning on his heel and walking right out of the Great Hall, damn what everyone thought and how they’d talk. He would not scent an eleven-year old-

But then, looking at the little boy in front of him who barely reached his chest, all curly hair with wide blue eyes, offering the scenting and trusting John not to hurt or embarrass him in front of everyone…John couldn’t have said no to Sherlock if his life depended on it.

He hadn’t exactly fallen in love, John conceded with a sardonic smile, but he’d certainly felt an unexpected and immense swell of affection for the little boy. John had been very much aware of the major implications of Sherlock’s offer, and the placement of his trust in John, despite his very obvious fear. He’d ran from John earlier that same day, hiding, but now he freely stood in front of him, allowing John to touch him, even negligibly. Sherlock was making an obvious effort to start their relationship well, showing courage that belied his fragile exterior, and the affection in John’s chest had abruptly morphed into strong admiration.

Watching his hand shake in the air between them like a leaf in a strong wind, John desperately, from the bottom of his heart, wanted to be deserving of Sherlock’s trust. He’d never, in all his 15 years, wanted to prove himself as worthy to someone so much as he did in that moment. Sherlock could’ve asked him for anything, anything in the entire world, and John would’ve given it to him with no hesitation.

It had been easy to agree to his request for a token scenting.

Kissing Sherlock’s inner wrist filled John’s nose with his scent-

Powdery.

Sweet.

Baby fine.

Subtle like wildflowers.

Wholesome and pure.

…pleasant.

The memory of Sherlock’s scent also made John uncomfortable. He didn’t think he would ever actually enjoy scenting him, no matter how much he may like his scent, so long as Sherlock was a child. But it also filled John with a burning resolve because he’d finally understood why Sherlock’s older brother protected him like he did, why he was so fierce and determined and aggressive when it came to safeguarding the little Omega:

Sherlock was little. Soft. Delicate. So very, very innocent.

And John would be expected to destroy that innocence one day.

He stared, haunted, at the ceiling and thought he would actually be sick. They would be married. They were Alpha and Omega. They would be a bonded _and_ mated pair.

Oh, gods.

Disturbed, John tried to imagine Sherlock as older, matured. A few inches taller so he wouldn’t be quite so small, and maybe without so much baby fat in his cheeks. He comforted himself that Sherlock’s scent would change once he began having heats- and it felt immoral for John to think about the little boy experiencing heats. But he would, nonetheless. Not thinking about it didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen, John reminded himself. When Sherlock began having heats, he wouldn’t be innocent anymore as to the ways of Alphas and Omegas, and that disillusionment, thank the gods, wouldn’t be John’s fault. Maybe he didn’t need to worry. Surely Sherlock’s older brother would talk to him about things before then- or at least before their wedding. John prayed that he would, and that Sherlock’s eyes wouldn’t always look so guileless, like a lamb being led to the slaughter-

John threw his pillow across the room with a frustrated growl. He was overreacting. All of these thoughts were irrational. Everything would work out fine.

Sherlock was still very young. He was eleven-years-old.

He wasn’t even a teenager yet.

Their wedding was seven years away. That was a long time for him to grow and mature.

It was a long time for John to get to know him better and earn even more of his trust and maybe…maybe then it’d be alright.

 _Maybe_.

With dread twisting his insides, he wouldn’t be getting any rest now. John flung an arm over his eyes, blocking out the light, and with a weary resignation, let his mind wander as it would.

From the first, John had been secretly excited that the Omega he was being betrothed to was a _male_ Omega. He wanted to be attracted to his future spouse- at least somewhat. It was a silly fantasy because it didn’t matter if Sherlock were as ugly as a troll- which he wasn’t, far from it actually, he was beautiful- John would have to marry him anyway. How he thought or felt about the Omega had no bearing on what would eventually happen.

John had still held out hope.

Female Omegas were nice, of course, for different reasons, but John loved the _masculinity_ of male Omegas. The muscles and stubble and hard planes of their bodies. They way they tasted and smelled and the feel of their hard cocks. Not that he’d expected to experience any of that with the Crown Prince since he knew Sherlock was young and that it would be seven years before they were married. John hadn’t minded. And he hadn’t minded the expectation to wait and remain faithful to his betrothed in the intervening years…

But laying the physical aspect of their relationship aside, forgetting it to be worried over in another few years, there was another problem. In all his wild imaginings, John hadn’t expected Sherlock to be so terribly _childlike_.

In Scotland, most eleven-year-olds, even the Omegas, had the weight of experience in their eyes. Not sexually, of course, but the harsh realities of a sometimes cruel world, where war and sickness and death was common, rubbed away the unsullied purity of their minds. Life could be pitiless. Nothing was guaranteed, and they learned that from a very early age. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d been deemed innocent- by any definition of the word.

But that was clearly not how Sherlock Holmes had been raised by his parents. Sheltered and protected all his life. Watched over. Guarded. Sequestered from the unforgiving truths of life. He had no idea about the bad things that could and did happen to people. Blissful in ignorance, John could guarantee that he'd never had to worry his curly little head about it. John had known that, to a certain degree…he hadn’t anticipated the terrifying extent of it…

Prince Mycroft had told John about his little brother in their last conversation before he left Scotland for Northumbria, and John should have realized everything Mycroft was telling him, put it all together, painted a bigger picture than the one he'd done, instead of allowing his anger to get the better of him and not fully understanding-

* * *

 

“It is no exaggeration, John, when I tell you that the Crown Prince is very innocent. In every way possible…which I’m sure you will appreciate.” Prince Mycroft said, able to speak freely in the small room where he had requested John meet him, wanting a locked door to guarantee privacy for this conversation. Obvious disdain dripping from every syllable, and John, knowing what he was referring to, blushed deeply.

He remembered his father’s vulgar demands during the marriage negotiations about the Omega Prince’s purity, and the suggestions of proof that would be required to verify such a thing, many of which had been explicit enough to turn John’s stomach. He’d known better than to speak up (his father didn’t hesitate to hit his family in front of company, thinking it was a show of strength) but inwardly he cringed with every new, obscene request.

After days of listening, though, he hadn’t been able to keep silent any longer. One morning, he’d spoken to his father in private before the negotiations were to start again. Suggesting that maybe they didn’t need such verifications in place, that Sherlock was a child and they didn’t have anything to worry about...

John’s lip hadn’t stop bleeding until almost noon. He hadn’t tried to speak to to his father about it again.

Prince Mycroft remained impassive during the meetings, not even batting an eye when King Watson demanded that the bed linens from the wedding night be exhibited to prove the Omega’s purity, and his son’s virility…but his ever-present Captain, the Alpha, Lestrade, had given eloquent enough looks for the both of them. John watched him stand behind the Prince, jaw clenched tight and eyes veritably killing his father where he sat, as King Watson waxed poetic on the sluttishness of Omegas and how they were all desperate for a knot, and how he expected the Omega Prince to be controlled and not be allowed to spread his legs for every available Alpha at the ready. If the Crown Prince was found not to be a virgin, he contended, during the wedding night, he should be paid double for his son’s humiliation…

John hadn’t been able to look Prince Mycroft- or Lestrade- in the face for a week after that particular conversation.

“I am _not_ my father.” He ground out, giving Mycroft a steady glare, refusing to look away. He had nothing to be ashamed of. “And my father does not speak for me. You’ve been here long enough to know why I didn’t…during the meetings…” Explaining why he’d stayed silent made John feel like a coward, and so he stopped trying. “But I do not hold the same arsebackwards opinions about Omegas that he does-“

“Of course you don’t.” Mycroft said, as if such a thing should have been obvious. “If you _did_ , I wouldn’t allow you in the same _country_ as my brother, much less become _betrothed_ to him.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes and behind him, the Captain shifted ever so slightly, the sword clinking at his side. There was nothing overt or menacing about it, but John felt threatened all the same.

“I am, however, very much aware of your numerous sexual exploits in your father’s Court, and while that is decidedly none of my concern, please be aware that such activities will not be allowed to continue in Northumbria.” Prince Mycroft gave John a look of withering disdain which let him know exactly what he thought of John’s exploits.

John bristled. Numerous sexual exploits.

There hadn’t been _that_ many.

 _Yes_ , there had been a _few_ trysts over the last couple of years. He’d engaged in a fumble here or there with a willing Omega. Properly bedded a couple on occasion. He’d shared Sholto’s heat a time or two (which, looking back on, John thought had been a mistake, and not for the obvious reasons). Nothing serious, though. It’d all been in good fun. Both he and his partners had known what to expect from the encounters: sexual gratification, a willing partner, heated kisses, and a warm presence on a cold night.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

It was practically expected for John to sleep with people in the Court anyway. He was an Alpha and the son of the King and even though he was the wrong Alpha to champion for the throne, he was attractive and good company and skilled in combat. There had never been a shortage of willing Omegas for him to dally with.

He hadn’t been a slag, John thought savagely, glaring at Prince Mycroft. He hadn’t slept with every damned Omega in the Court like the Prince was clearly implying. There had been a few...

Besides.

No one had given a good godsdamn what he did in his father’s Court. It didn’t _matter_. There wasn’t a reason for John to remain chaste because he’d known his father wouldn’t arrange a marriage for him. John had to have his father’s approval if he arranged his own marriage- approval which John knew wouldn’t be granted. Then, once his father died, John probably wouldn’t live long enough to choose someone- and it was beyond hope that Harriet, if she didn’t have him killed before their father was even cold in the ground, would allow him to marry either.

So. He had indulged himself.

There’d been nothing wrong with it. His father had known what John was doing and silently approved of his son’s activities, proud he had such virile offspring. John’s mother pointedly refused to acknowledge his goings-on, letting him know by her silence on the matter that she disapproved. But the fact was, neither of them had even _hinted_ at stopping him because _It. Didn’t. Matter._ No one had given a flying fuck who he slept with. Where or when or how often.

He’d carried on that way since he was a teen and no one cared-

Until suddenly, one day out of the godsdamn blue, _they did._

“I highly discourage you from carrying on affairs in the Northumbrian Court as you have been allowed here. If you do, of course, I won’t be able to stop you.” Prince Mycroft conceded, reluctant. “But I will remind you, John, that you will be betrothed and will therefore be expected to treat your future Consort with the utmost respect. In all things. It would be highly distressing for him to know that you were engaging in such dishonorable behavior in his own Court, with no thought or concern for how such actions would embarrass him or otherwise make him feel.”

“I would never be so disrespectful!” John began, insulted to his very core. Just because he had fucked a few people didn’t mean he would shame his betrothed in the future by sleeping his way through the Northumbrian Court. “I don’t know what sort of bloody rumors you’ve heard, but I haven’t-“

The Prince talked over John, ignoring his protests. “I do realize that your wedding will not take place for quite a number of years, and I’m given to understand that Alphas have certain…urges.” He gave John a pained smiled and John realized that his teeth were bared in a furious snarl.

“If, in the intervening years, you find that remaining chaste is beyond you, I only ask that you be discreet with your affairs, no matter who you may choose to dally with. You, of course, cannot ever turn your carnal attentions toward the Crown Prince. As I have said, he is young, and very innocent. It goes without saying that he is off-limits to you, but I will be explicit so there are no misunderstandings.”

John already knew that Prince Mycroft’s looks were cold enough to freeze fire, and the one he leveled at John in that moment would have frozen the fires of hell itself.

“No insinuations should be made. No vulgar looks. No sexual innuendo- either to see proof of his naivety or to watch him blush with understanding. You should not mention the fact you will one day be mated to him, or allude to his future heats- which he is entirely unfamiliar with- in any way.” Mycroft recited his expectations with utter calm, while John grew angrier with every word out of his mouth, fists clenching in impotent rage at his sides. He was shaking in fury, his vision blacking at the edges as his adrenaline spiked.

What the hell did the Prince think of him, to believe John would act like that? He may have had sex with a few more people than the Prince approved of, but that didn’t mean he would go around tormenting and harassing a child. He wouldn’t molest the Omega he was betrothed to. He had morals, and those morals did not allow him to harm innocent children in such ways as the Prince was saying-

“I’m not sure how royal Omegas are treated here, but in Northumbria they are kept very secluded. My brother has been heavily protected from most of the world since he was an infant. He hasn’t even been so much as _touched_ by an Alpha who wasn’t either his mother or a trusted protector.”

John’s eyes slid to where Captain Lestrade stood, and the Captain stared back at him, expressionless. Clearly he was of the Prince’s opinion about John too.

Great.

Just godsdamn fucking great.

John turned his attention back to Prince Mycroft, jaw clenched and wanting to punch him in his scornful, smug face. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something derogatory just to provoke and make him angry. It was how John always responded to Harry and her barbs, and he was experienced in the art of a well-timed insult. It would give him a fierce pleasure to needle the arrogant bastard of a Prince, especially after he had insulted John up one side and down the other, almost outright calling him a pervert with every insinuation.

John opened his mouth, ready to let his prepared insult fly…then stopped. Closed his mouth. Glared at the Prince a bit more.

Although…

John knew Alphas who acted like Prince Mycroft described. Aggressive. Egotistical. They towered over Omegas, using their size to intimidate and frighten. Pressing their advantage at every opportunity to see what liberties scared Omegas would let them have. They twisted conversations around to sound sexual, even the most innocent phrases, and then laughed when the Omegas responded naïvely, not understanding what was being implied and playing right into the Alpha’s hands.

Dirty jokes and perverted whispers and boastful tales of sexual conquests followed them around like a bad smell.

John knew their type, and he had to admit, grudgingly, that after everything Prince Mycroft had witnessed in his time in Scotland, it was perhaps possible that he thought John was somewhat like that. Like his father and sister…and every other Alpha in his father’s Court.

“I’m not sure what you’ve heard, or believe, but I assure you that I’m not the sort of Alpha my father wishes me to be.” John moderated his voice as best he could even though anger simmered just below the surface. Something in Mycroft’s expression shifted. He still didn’t look friendly- John doubted he was capable of such a warm emotion- but some of the disgust in his face lessened. Faintly.

“I may have _numerous sexual exploits_ ,” He twisted the words, making them sound as sarcastic as possible, “but that does not mean I am so reprehensible an Alpha as to behave in the way you’re describing.” John took a deep breath to steady himself, not wanting to start shouting. It was a very near thing. “I have experience with the behavior of Alphas who lack honor and integrity. Who act predatory when placed in situations where they think consequences will not apply to them. Many of my father’s soldiers are like that. I’ve witnessed firsthand their appalling actions…and been unable to stop them. Because my father’s the same way. He delights in such things.” John admitted. Prince Mycroft was intelligent. He would’ve had to been a fool not to notice. “You’ve been here almost a month. You know that for yourself. But I am not…he may have tried to make me…”

John looked away to gather himself as a lifetime of slights and hurts welled up which only fed into the anger and irritation he was trying to control. “I was the second born Alpha. He didn’t give a godsdamn about me. So I wasn’t raised by him. I was raised by my mother. My _Omega_ mother.” The same mother he’d been forbidden to see the last month as punishment for angering his father. “I will not be the Alpha my father is. Or the one he wants me to be. I’ve spent a good deal of my life trying not to. I give you my word that I will not harm the Crown Prince.”

He turned back to Mycroft and hoped he could read the sincerity in his face. Not that John gave a damn what the Ice Prince of Northumbria thought of him, but it rankled to imagine the Prince and his Captain thinking so _lowly_ of him. John disliked the Prince, but he respected him, and he held his Alpha Captain in high regard. They had trained together a few mornings, had some good conversation. He didn’t want to be thought of as the sort of Alpha who would stoop to distressing children.

“I won’t hurt him. In any way. Either with my words or my actions. It would honestly be the last thing I would ever want to do.”

Mycroft regarded him in silence before stepping away, his face impassive and giving John no indication that he’d even heard him.

“I’m not a moron.” He said. “I know as well as you what will eventually be expected of my brother and what his future holds as the Omega Consort...but right now he is still a child. He shouldn’t have to worry about certain things. Not yet. It is probably a foolish wish, but I want him to remain happy and unaware for as long as possible. You will make no demands of him.”

John clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. Hadn’t he _just_ said that? Had the sodding Prince even listened to him? He glanced behind the arsehole to where the Captain still stood, but was met with an equally blank expression.

Fine. Fuck the _both_ of them.

But John kept his irritation to himself and gave a short nod, giving his assent- and when the Prince and his Captain swept from the room and were mercifully gone, he threw the heaviest object he could find against the far wall, delighting in the loud shattering of glass, not caring if he were punished for the destruction.

* * *

 

It all made sense to John now- every single demand Mycroft had made of him concerning his behavior toward the Crown Prince. John shuddered to think of how other Alphas would treat Sherlock, seeing a small, helpless Omega who’d been closely protected all their lives, already seemingly scared of them with eyes full of innocence the Alpha would have enjoyed exploiting…and then summarily destroying. John had seen it happen before.

Too many times.

He would never do something like that- to any Omega- but especially not to Sherlock. Ever. He would kill anyone who tried.

John frowned. That was an odd thought for him to have. Where the hell had that come from?

Tentative, he evaluated the possible reason, but just grew more confused. He didn’t understand…

He rubbed his chest, grimacing. It felt odd. He wondered if he were getting sick…It was possible. He was in a new country and…

He wasn’t in love with Sherlock. The idea was ridiculous. For one, he had just met him and hadn’t had a full conversation with him. For second, it was impossible to be in love with an eleven-year-old.

But the fact remained that John already felt protective of the little boy. Abnormally so. There had to be an explanation for it.

It was probably something stupid, John thought. Maybe because Sherlock was an Omega and John was an Alpha and he’d been told for months that he was betrothed to Sherlock and that Sherlock would be his and so when he’d scented the Omega’s wrist, his instincts had realigned, recognizing his future mate and….

But what if…

Did that mean…

And would that…

John’s head ached from going round and round his problems and getting nowhere. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until starbursts exploded beneath his closed lids, then wearily levered himself from the bed, going in search of Stamford for some tea- or at least a sodding distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that NOTHING even REMOTELY sexual will take place between Sherlock and John until Sherlock is of age. John is worried about the future, that's all. 
> 
> This fic is earning the E rating from Mycroft and Greg.


	10. Chapter 10

“Private dinner” was a completely relative term in the palace at Marseille.

When John was told the evening’s plans, he’d expected to dine with the royal family in an intimate arrangement, away from prying eyes, where they could relax and be themselves and not have to worry about impressing the entire Court. He’d thought there would only be a handful of people so they could talk and get to know one another better- after today, they were akin to family, and one day they really would be. He’d hoped to have a chance to speak to Prince Sherlock and find out what sort of Omega he was, discover his likes and dislikes, suss out who he was as a person and get a better idea of how well they’d get along ( _if_ they even would) and if they would suit. He’d wanted to make a good impression on him, prove that he was worthy of Sherlock’s trust, and continue what had been started this morning: laying the foundation for what John hoped would be an agreeable relationship. Ambitious, but John had never been a coward.

Besides that, he hadn’t said two words together to the Queen. Nor her Consort.

Prince Mycroft would be there too, but John had said all he wanted to _him_ for an entire lifetime and Mycroft and his annoying, pompous, infuriating arse could be ignored. In a small arrangement, it would be harder to do, but John was up to the task.

It was possible, he’d thought that evening as he and Stamford made the trek downstairs to the formal dining hall, that there may be a few additional people present- higher ranking nobility and the like whom it was required to invite. But no more than 10 or 12 people.

At the _most_.

He should have known better because nothing in Marseille was ever done on a small scale.

There were close to a hundred people already assembled, crammed into the formal dining hall in overwhelming array. Dressed in elaborate outfits for the fete, they shimmered in the candlelight with silver and gold thread, glittering gemstones, and trailing festoons and trains. Although, John had to admit, they weren’t exactly _crammed_ inside. There was plenty of space for everyone. It was only himself, it seemed, who felt suffocated by the mob.

The royal family dined on a small, raised dais at the front of the enormous room, positioned so they could see and be seen from all parts, and John was escorted through the throng to his seat, nodding and being bowed at. Whispers broke out all around the room, hissing, as poisonous as snakes. John was uncomfortably aware of his limbs and keeping his posture straight, placing one foot in front of the other while sweat broke out along his spine. The royal family hadn’t arrived yet and so John stood where he was told on the dais and looked out over the swarm of people. Many faces were turned to him. People nudged each other and pointed. Murmured. Judged.

John pretended he didn’t notice. Shamming at being totally unaffected, he looked around the room trying to distract himself. It was an easy enough thing to do.

The formal dining hall at Marseille was exquisite. A large wooden table was positioned nearby on the dais where he would dine with the Holmes, the surface of which was not only covered with ornate centerpieces of flowers and stunning golden candelabra, but was polished to so high a shine that John could see his face reflected back at him. There were ten chairs grouped around the table- a mocking homage to John’s earlier assumption of an intimate arrangement.

He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity.

The other nobles who weren’t important enough to garner a space on the dais sat in descending rank at two long tables which ran parallel to each other the entire length of the hall. Their tables were no less extravagant than the royal family’s, or less elegantly fitted out. Made of gracefully carved wood polished so much that it sparkled, and covered in pristine white tablecloths, the tables groaned under the weight of delicate golden candelabras swathed in tinkling crystals that sparkled and threw faint rainbows, and infinitely fragile porcelain plates.

Numerous candles decorated the vast hall, fighting the encroaching darkness which could be seen through the windows, and the flames were reflected in the glass very prettily, presenting the illusion that thousands of candles were lighting the hall, from both inside and out. The flickering lights made shadows dance on the walls and ceiling, providing enough illumination for the guests to see each other over the sumptuous meal laid out before them, but also to make the crowded room appear more intimate, friendly, and warm…

It was a clever ruse, beautifully done, but no amount of pretty candles could make John forget the press of bodies or the particular warmth which only large crowds of people generated. And it couldn’t mask the roar of voices which blanketed him like a blizzard.

There was a sudden excited upswing in volume before the crowd parted, making way for the herald to announce the entrance of the royal family, and then each person sank into a low bow as they entered. John stood at attention, hands behind his back, and tried to look solemn as the Queen and her Consort, closely followed by their sons, made their stately way toward the dais. The butterflies in his stomach fluttered in a horribly uncomfortable way and John looked forward to the end of the evening when he could retreat back to his room, to peace and quiet and where he could be alone and not feel the weight of hundreds of eyes pressing on him until it was hard to breathe-

Then, like a bolt from the blue, he remembered: he may escape tonight...but not forever. Because this was his home now. He would marry the Crown Prince. He would rule over this Court. This was not just a one-time entertainment. This would be a regular occurrence. For the rest of his life.

John’s appetite, which had already been scanty, withered entirely.

Feeling a tight clench of panic, he looked to where the Queen and her family were mounting the dais and his eyes collided with the Crown Prince’s. The little boy seemed to have been staring at him the whole time because he acted caught out, gaze widening, shocked, before he quickly looked away, blushing.

John’s struggling spirits sank. A few of the butterflies in his stomach mated and produced fluttering offspring which struggled beneath his ribcage.

He had never felt so lonely or hopeless in all his life.

He wanted to go home.

He couldn’t.

That wasn’t a possibility.

So John stood where he was supposed to, his face smoothed over like he was supposed to, his hands behind his back and posture straight like he was supposed to...waiting for the Queen and her Consort to arrive at the head of the table. He bowed to them, receiving the requisite smiles and bows in return. The Crown Prince’s bow was just as jerky and short as that morning, except this time he did it so very quickly that he almost overbalanced. He had to catch himself before he toppled over and flushed a deep, deep pink. From that moment forward, he refused to peel his eyes from the floor.

“My Lords and Ladies…take seats, take seats.” The Queen called out, and there was a great shuffling of chairs and rustling of cloth, an upsurge in volume as everyone did as instructed, fitting themselves in at their tables in the correct chairs, elbowing and forcing room for their elaborate costumes. The process took some minutes before they were all seated. The Queen alone remained standing, bathed in candlelight. Regal, she held herself with effortless grace and stunning, enviable poise. It was easy for John to see where Prince Mycroft had gotten his easy, assertive confidence. She stared at her subjects with firm assurance, serene, with no sign of doubt or nerves or overt Alpha posturing to show everyone her disdain, letting them know that she was powerful and they were not and they were all beneath her. She didn’t need to do any of that. The message was obvious in every line of her body, her nonchalant elegance, and the golden circlet sparkling on her dark hair. She was unquestionably their Queen because she deserved it.

John was more than a little intimidated by her.

“My Lords and Ladies,” She began, voice strong, ringing through the hall, “this day has been a very long time in coming. I know that more than anyone. I have felt the passage of time slipping through our fingers, but, as a true family, I was never alone. You shared in my unease, and I know there were doubts and fears, troubles and anxieties, over the years as we searched for a suitable Alpha to rule Northumbria. Sometimes, the future looked bleak, and a few perhaps gave up hope...but _I_ had faith in your Prince, Mycroft, that his undertaking would be completed with triumph. And I was right. All our troubles and anxieties and fears have been cleared away by his brilliance and prized, unparalleled judgement. It is an honor to have him as my son, and I formally thank him for his tremendous contributions, labors, and sacrifices on behalf of Northumbria. It is as a true Prince should behave, and I am proud of him.”

She beamed warmly at her eldest son. It was weakly returned, Mycroft’s lips jerking upward in a pale guise of a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. John stared at the yellow and green bruise on his cheek. It wasn’t hidden by the dim lighting and was shocking on his pale skin, clashing with his reddish hair. No one had mentioned it. That, in and of itself, was telling. John took the situation as read. He looked back to the Queen, unsettled.

“My Lords and Ladies, I know that as always, but especially today of all days, you share in my immense joy over the fruition of our struggles. Today, we were blessed by the gods to witness the union of our two countries- Northumbria and Scotland- by a sanctified betrothal between my darling, your Omega, Prince of Bernicia and Deira, and future Consort of Northumbria, Crown Prince Sherlock Holmes,” She turned the same warm smile to her youngest, but his smile was just as wan as his elder brother’s. Sherlock seemed rather out of sorts, his eyes cast down. John wondered if it were past his bedtime.

“-And your new Alpha, Duke of Argyll, Prince of Scotland, and future King of Northumbria, Prince John Watson.” Her eyes flicked to John and his stomach jerked at the unexpected attention- and the use of his title. Most people didn’t bother to include it since the redundancy was implicit (it wasn’t truly his to control, was bequeathed in form only). But he supposed it sounded impressive when said in the Queen’s commanding voice.

“We watched the two of them pledge their devotion and love and obligation to each other for the good of our two countries and for the future prosperity of Northumbria. Tonight is a celebration of that dedication and I am sure each and every one of you desires to commemorate this happy date as we do. There shall be a gala later this evening, with fireworks and music and dancing and prayer, to demonstrate to the young couple and the gods our thankfulness for their blessing; however, I first invite you to join in our celebratory repast and fill your bodies with good food, good wine, and all the merriment and cheer it is possible to glean from my table.”

She took up her wine glass, hand steady and genuine pleasure in her countenance. She seemed such a happy person. Warm. Personable. Nice. John’s eye flicked across the table to Prince Mycroft again, the bruise stark on his cheek.

“My Lords and Ladies, I ask you to raise your glasses and drink a toast in honor to your Alpha, Prince John Watson and his Omega, Crown Prince Sherlock Holmes, the future Alpha and Omega, King and Consort, of Northumbria. May we wish them all the wisdom, peace, good fortune, and pleasure in the future, as they join themselves in the most intimate of ways, as only Alpha and Omega are able.”

John’s hand trembled, causing the red wine to slosh in his glass, and he blushed. He wondered if maybe he was just reading too much into her statement, his thoughts from earlier coloring his perceptions- but a quick glance across the table put paid to that idea. Crown Prince Sherlock was looking up at his brother, eyebrows raised so high they had disappeared under the fringe of his curls.

He probably didn’t understand what she meant, John realized, and Prince Mycroft didn’t seem inclined to explain. Not at the moment, anyway. He pressed his lips together, staring straight forward, and minutely shook his head. Refusing to answer Sherlock’s unspoken question. Sherlock dropped his gaze- John’s stomach jerked when their eyes met again, and Sherlock blushed just as hotly as John was.

This time, they _both_ hastily looked away.

The toast was drank and the Queen indicated the meal could be served. She seated herself beside her Consort at the head of the table, side-by-side. The Crown Prince was at his Mother’s left, directly opposite John, and the Prince was next, seated beside the Queen’s General- an Alpha named Greely, John remembered- and then the Captain of the Prince’s Guard, Lestrade. John thought it was unusual for them to be elevated above the nobles, but Stamford had explained the two men held positions of power in the Court not only for their superior military prowess, but also because they were very close to the royal family and highly trusted. John already knew Prince Mycroft relied heavily on his Captain, and for his part, the Alpha seemed ready to do anything needed to protect his Prince. It was admirable. He didn’t know about Greely, but he’d heard rumors that the Alpha had served the Queen since she was young and was proven trustworthy. John supposed they deserved to sit near the head of the table.

On John’s side of the table was Stamford (John had haggled to make sure his advisor was there, offending a few people, but he would be damned first before he went into this evening all alone). Then, there was the Duke of Lennox, John’s uncle, and two other nobles who had traveled with him. They were a small party and everyone but John and Stamford would leave by the end of the month and return home-

The Queen turned to John, startling him from his thoughts. “Before we begin our lovely evening, John, Sherlock has something he wishes to say to you.”

She fixed her youngest with an expectant expression, and John mirrored her, wondering what the little Omega could possibly have to say to him.

Sherlock minutely flinched, but then he gathered himself, taking a deep breath and dutifully opened his mouth. “Prince John.” He began, very formally, his voice as high as the ringing of a bell, and even though he gave the impression that he was looking at John, his eyes were slightly too far to the side, staring over his left shoulder. “I apologize for disrupting the betrothal ceremony this morning by behaving in such a childish manner, hiding from everyone and causing unnecessary worry. I brought embarrassment to both yourself and the nobles from Scotland. There is no reason good enough to excuse the shameful way I behaved, as it demonstrated a deplorable lack of restraint on my part to govern myself.” He was clearly reciting the apology from rote, the words hollow, but the Queen smiled at him in approval. “I would humbly ask your forgiveness...please.”

Mother and son looked at John, who realized he was supposed to say something.

He didn’t want to say something, he thought irritably. He didn’t want Sherlock’s apology. It was clear his mother had forced him to say it, and equally clear that Sherlock hadn’t wanted to. Insincere apologies were repugnant, but in this instance John felt that Sherlock really had nothing to apologize for.

His tentative dislike of the Queen rose.

“You may have it.” He reluctantly said, when Stamford prodded him under the table. “Only…I would ask your forgiveness as well.”

“Whatever would you ask Sherlock’s forgiveness for?” The Queen tittered, as if John were making a jest, but when John glanced back at Sherlock, the little boy was actually looking at him- before his eyes sailed away again.

“I would ask your forgiveness, Sherlock, for distressing you this morning, so much so that you felt the need to hide. I’m not sure the exact reason for your upset...but I’m sure it was an entirely understandable reaction to have...for anyone in your situation. I hate that it happened, but please know that if I or any of my actions have thus far caused you distress, I would humbly ask your forgiveness for that- and I give you a promise that I will never purposefully do anything in future to cause you unhappiness.”

Sherlock looked at John, of his own free will, and even Prince Mycroft, who’d seemed distracted the entire time, lowered his wine glass, gaze sharpening in surprise. John gave Sherlock a hesitant smile across the table and was heartened, his spirits soaring to the vaulted ceiling above, when Sherlock blushed, red blotchily suffusing his cheeks and traveling all down his neck in a rather ugly way- and smiled back at him.

John’s heart skipped a beat-

“Sherlock doesn’t deserve your apology, John.” The Queen censured, trampling over the moment, and the smile slipped from Sherlock’s face. He lowered his eyes again, leaving John feeling as if the sun had ducked behind a cloud.

No. No no no.

“Of course, it’s a lovely sentiment, and I thank you for expressing it in such a becoming manner…” She continued, unaware of the havoc she had caused and John’s dislike of her continued to climb, “but it really isn’t something Sherlock deserves. He knows he doesn’t. He behaved in a very inexcusable way this morning, losing his head as he did and running about the palace like an Omega with no common sense, causing alarm to everyone and bringing undue shame to his Alpha. That was not the proper way to welcome you to Northumbria, nor an auspicious start to your relationship. It was a terrible first impression to make and he knows what he did was offensive.” She shook her head, the crown sparkling, and gave John another of the smiles he was starting to hate. “Please, do not trouble yourself currying Sherlock’s forgiveness for an error in judgement that was entirely of his own making. If anything, he should be concerned with gaining yours, since you are his Alpha and it is only proper for him to do so.”

John’s mouth was already open to argue- but Stamford pinched him hard under the table and he closed his mouth.

“Now,” She said briskly, smiling. It set John’s teeth on edge “since Sherlock’s unpleasantness is behind us, we may move forward and enjoy the rest of our evening. Have you been informed of the gala tonight, John? It will be great fun…”

* * *

 

His mother’s voice washed over him as she chatted animatedly to Prince John, but Mycroft wasn’t able to concentrate.

Beneath the table, he fingered the missed eyelets on his trousers. They weren’t very noticeable. No one else had seen them. It was as Sherlock had said: nobody would be looking at his thighs…but _Mycroft_ knew they were there. The presence of the skipped places was telling, the implications as obvious as a cannon shot.

Gregory had tried to help him dress.

After….

* * *

 

Gregory was a soldier, not used to the intricate network of laces that were Mycroft’s clothes, and they were already in such a rush. Their fingers tangled over the silk strips while Gregory apologized profusely.

“I didn’t mean to let us sleep so long. Are you alright, sweetheart? I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was...are you sure you’re alright? I’m so sorry, Mycroft, please believe me. I didn’t mean for this to happen…”

Mycroft fumbled to get himself dressed, horribly aware of how late he was going to be, and fearful that if he were too late his mother would come looking for him...and find Gregory Lestrade in his bedroom, naked, his back covered in scratches, and the bedclothes in telling disarray...

Terror fueled Mycroft’s movements. He had to avert disaster. What would happen if they were actually discovered? Would Gregory be dismissed? Arrested? Mycroft would certainly never be allowed to see him again. He’d spend the rest of his life without him and this would be the last time he ever felt loved-

But he _wasn’t_ loved, Mycroft reminded himself as he struggled to dress. This had nothing to do with love. It had been lust. Carnality. Fucking.

All his silly fantasies about the Alpha were just that: silly. He’d thought he could do this, that he could have Gregory, but this- no matter how pleasurable- hadn’t been worth the risk. If they were caught, Mycroft would have destroyed his mother’s trust in him. He knew from then on she’d look at him with contempt, unable to believe he could have been so stupid. But what worried him the most was...what if she made good on her promise and removed Sherlock so he wouldn’t be tainted by Mycroft’s slutty influence? What if she took Sherlock from him? What if she exerted her own influence over Sherlock, filled his head with all sorts of horrible ideas, and Mycroft wouldn’t be there to counteract it? He’d never be close to Sherlock again. He’d only ever be allowed to see him during formal occasions. From a distance.

It hadn’t even happened yet and Mycroft was already heartbroken.

If she were angry enough, removing Sherlock from their wing may not be enough. She might send Mycroft away entirely, to one of the Southern provinces, and separate them that way. She could prevent him from ever seeing Sherlock again. What if she decided to-

Mycroft’s hands shook harder, breath stuttering as his fear rose. What if his mother was on her way right now to see what was taking her usually punctual eldest so long? What if-

“You have to leave.” He pulled away from Gregory, forcing the Alpha to let go of his sleeve or rip it. “You have to leave right now.”

“Mycroft-“

“Get dressed.” He snapped, concentrating on lacing up the legs of his trousers, not sparing a glance to see if Gregory did as he was told. “Then leave.”

Why hadn’t he thought of Sherlock before deciding to do this? He’d only thought of himself. Selfish. Greedy. This had been a monumentally stupid plan-

“Mycroft.” Gregory’s voice was soft and hesitant and everything was suddenly terrible. Mycroft had never been so miserable in all his life.

“We never should have done this.” He couldn’t look at Gregory. He didn’t know what he would do if he did. “This was...I regret ever agreeing- We’re going to get caught.”

“No, we won’t. I’m sorry. Really. I know we slept too long, but we have plenty of time before we have to be downstairs for dinner. I’ll-”

“You don’t understand!” Mycroft said tightly. “This proves what I was afraid of- we can’t do this because we’re going to get caught. It’s too risky. This was an incredibly stupid thing for me to do...if she knows...She’ll...she’ll take Sherlock from me. She’ll take him and-“ Mycroft took a hitching breath, realizing he was close to hyperventilating but not able to get control of himself. “She’ll take him and never let me see him and-“

“Mycroft. _Stop_.” Gregory pulled him into a crushing embrace, folding him against his chest tightly. Mycroft struggled. They didn’t have time for that. They were already so late. He kept squirming, trying to escape, but Gregory’s hold only tightened.

“Mycroft. Sweetheart. Calm down.” He murmured against his hair and it felt so good. “Sweetheart, it’s fine. You’re fine. Calm down.” Mycroft didn’t want it to feel good. He struggled again, but knew he was defeated, and slumped. He had to calm down. The only way Gregory would let him continue getting dressed was if Mycroft pretended to calm down. Just enough so he would be released.

“That won’t happen.” Gregory’s hand rubbed up and down his back, firm and soothing and Mycroft closed his eyes with longing, wanting the peace he offered but knowing it wasn’t possible. “None of that will happen. We won’t get caught and she won’t take Sherlock from you-“

“She said she would.” Mycroft choked and he felt Gregory stiffen in surprise, but he blundered on. “She’ll take him from me if she suspects that I’m...if she believes that you and I are…” He trailed off. “I thought...I thought this would be fine. I thought I could have- that we could do this. But now...we- we can’t get caught...I can’t...I can’t let her…”

“I’m sorry.” Gregory whispered, hugging Mycroft to him. “Gods. I’m so sorry, Mycroft...I didn’t know. This is all my fault. I let us sleep too long but I honestly didn’t think...I won’t let that happen. Ever. She won’t know about this. About us. I promise.”

Mycroft wanted to believe him. He’d always been able to trust Gregory. He had for years. But this time, he was so scared and there was so much to lose if he failed-

Gregory brushed the tears off Mycroft’s cheeks- when had he started crying?- and cupped his face in his hands.

“I won’t ever let that happen. I promise.” He kissed Mycroft’s forehead and then let him go, spinning around and grabbing up his clothes, putting them on with ease in comparison to Mycroft’s mess of eyelets and laces. It was what he’d desperately wanted only minutes before, but now that he had what he wanted and Gregory was preparing to leave, Mycroft wanted him to stay.

Foolish, he berated himself as he set back to work on his laces. Utter foolishness.

Gregory was dressed in next to no time, checking his appearance in Mycroft’s mirror to make sure he was decent, before striding to the door without a backward glance.

“Wait!” Mycroft tripped over his trousers as he scrambled across the room, but he couldn’t let him leave without-

Mycroft pulled Gregory into a kiss, trying to inject as much passion and apology and forgiveness and love into it as possible. He tried to wordlessly tell him everything he couldn’t give voice to, and he thought he succeeded because Gregory moaned, stepping closer, his hands coming up to cup Mycroft’s cheeks again.

“I don’t regret this.” Mycroft said when it was over. “I don’t. That was wrong of me to say. I want you to understand. It’s only…”

He was silenced with another kiss and Gregory’s whispered promise- “I won’t ever let that happen.”

One more brief kiss and then Gregory was gone, stepping through the door and shutting it behind him, leaving Mycroft alone...and utterly heartsick. He didn’t have time to spare for moping, though. It was useless. He immediately set to work on his clothes again, working as fast as he could, but spared a morose thought that the removal of his clothes earlier in the evening had been decidedly more pleasant...

* * *

 

_Earlier..._

The laces holding the arms of his tunic together weren’t difficult, but Mycroft’s fingers still slipped over the silk, unable to gain purchase as he became embarrassed at his show of nerves.

“May I?”

Mycroft hesitated, then nodded, grateful when his hands were pushed away so Gregory could take over. He held his arm still and watched Gregory’s deft fingers set to work: plucking at the silk and dragging the ribbon through the eyelet, loosening the fabric, then starting on the next interlaced web.

Plucking. Dragging. Loosening. Plucking. Dragging. Loosening.

Revealing more and more and more skin.

Mycroft didn’t understand why it should be so arousing to watch Gregory undressing him. It wasn’t even in a salacious location. It was his _arm_. His reaction made no logical sense and Mycroft frowned, keeping his eyes trained on Gregory’s fingers, trying to understanding...

Gregory finished with the sleeve and Mycroft waited for him to move to the other one- expediency in the removal of one’s clothes before engaging in coitus was generally valued, wasn’t it?- but unexpectedly, Gregory lowered his head and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Mycroft’s bare forearm.

His lips were warm and Mycroft gasped. He felt the shock of it all the way down his body. Tingles radiated from the point of contact and Mycroft’s entire body thrilled from the simple caress. There was no reason to pay amorous attention to his forearm. It was a decidedly un-erotic area and served no sexual purpose.

Mycroft wanted Gregory to do it again. He held his breath, hoping...

As if he could read Mycroft’s thoughts, Gregory grinned, making him blush, but Mycroft was rewarded with another kiss to his forearm, further down this time, near his wrist were his pulse leapt. More tingles raced up his arm. His body flashed hot and cold in waves.

Another kiss.

Then another.

There was a lump in his throat that Mycroft couldn’t breathe around and he tried not to let it show as Gregory’s lips made the slow progression downward. Each new kiss made his heart skip. He was lightheaded.

He didn’t know what would happen when Gregory reached the end of his arm. He didn’t know what he wanted to happen. Each possibility was more unlikely than the next...

Mycroft made a small noise entirely unbecoming of a Prince when Gregory brushed the last kiss to the very center of Mycroft’s palm. He literally trembled, wanting more...but Gregory only gave him another grin, then abandoned his arm and set to work on the other sleeve.

 _Oh_.

Mycroft slumped, disappointed- but not for long.

Because this time, he knew what to expect as each new piece of his skin was laid bare. He was on edge. Waiting. Breathless. Hoping Gregory would-

“Oh!”

A kiss. His breath caught-

Instead of down, Gregory moved _up_...over Mycroft’s forearm...the sensitive bend of his arm...his upper arm...his shoulder...

Gregory’s final kiss was to Mycroft’s lips and he moaned, feeling a faint flicker of embarrassment at how effected he was, but wanting to lose himself in it all. The arousal seeping through his veins made his head spin. He wanted more-

He wanted-

Gregory broke their kiss and Mycroft protested, swaying forward, but Gregory teased him, moving further away. “What else?”

“What...what else?” Mycroft was dazed. He didn’t know what Gregory was going on about. Gregory looked pleased and gave Mycroft another kiss, but pulled away much too soon. Mycroft clutched at his clothes, too polite to drag him back and force another kiss...but it was a near thing.

“Is there anything else you would like me to remove?” Gregory’s lips against his cheek made gooseflesh break out over Mycroft’s skin. He shivered, grip tightening.

“Oh. Well. Um.” He stalled, feeling stupid as he tried to remember how to get himself out of his own clothes. At the moment, it seemed a monumental task. “Um…That’s...Well…I’ll just…”

He clambered off the bed and wordlessly turned so Gregory could undo on the laces at the back of his tunic. They weren’t actually necessary to take the garment off- were more decorative than anything- but Mycroft needed the time to compose himself. Gregory slipped off the bed and set to work without another word.

Mycroft held onto the wooden poster of the bed, letting Gregory carry on. He closed his eyes, heat pooling in his belly. Beneath his tunic was his undershirt, a very thin, transparent material, and Mycroft could feel every brush of Gregory’s fingers through the fabric. They traced over his spine, loosening the silk weaves.

Mycroft shivered again, knuckles turning white where he gripped the bedpost as if his life depended on it. Gregory paused, waiting for Mycroft to tell him to stop…then started again.

The swish of the laces coming undone was loud. Mycroft stared sightlessly ahead of him. He and Gregory were about to…they were going to…

It didn’t seem possible. He’d dreamt of this moment for years. Skulked around the palace like a criminal so he could spy on his Captain and then touched himself in shameful ways while he did. He’d fantasized. Daydreamed. Pleasured himself during his heats to the memory of how Gregory had fucked him at the inn, pretending it was the Alpha as he thrust a toy inside himself, moaning...

Mycroft was going to have him again.

Steely resolve settled in Mycroft’s bones, replacing the lingering trepidation. He was going to have Gregory again and that meant that it didn’t matter what his mother said or believed about him. It didn’t matter if Gregory only wanted him for sexual gratification. It didn’t matter that Mycroft didn’t know what he was doing. It didn’t matter that nothing would come from this. It didn’t matter all the whys and wherefores.

Gregory was here.

He desired Mycroft.

Mycroft wanted him.

_He got to have him._

Mycroft’s tunic suddenly came undone, the fabric falling around him and sliding halfway down his arms. It took only dropping his arms for it to fall the rest of the way to the floor. His undershirt flowed loose, cool, sheer and covering nothing, and before he lost his newfound nerve, Mycroft pulled it up and over his head, dropping it to join the tunic on the floor. Gregory was silent. Mycroft waited on him to move, to reach for the rest of the laces. They both knew what was next. But he didn’t.

“Gregory?”

“…Yes?”

Mycroft reached behind for Gregory’s hands and tugged the Alpha forward, wrapping Gregory’s arms around his bare waist. He was shockingly warm, the solid length of him pressed all along Mycroft’s back. He could feel Gregory breathing, smell his scent....

Alpha. Desire. Mycroft’s mouth went dry.

He was trembling, muscles jumping with nervous excitement. Anticipation swelled in his chest because he’d never felt anything as good as Gregory’s hands on his skin, touching him, and he would soon have much, much more...

“There’s still more laces to be undone, Captain.” Mycroft knew he had to understand…but Gregory’s hands didn’t move. He still kept them chastely around Mycroft’s waist. There was nothing else for it.

Mycroft closed his eyes and pulled at Gregory’s hand, sliding it down…

down…

…down…

...over his stomach. He stopped when he reached the laces which held the front of his trousers together. Gregory’s fingers brushed against them and he inhaled sharply, his arm tensing and pulling Mycroft back against him hard.

“Oh, gods.”

* * *

 

Mycroft’s trousers were mainly held together on the outer side of each leg by silk ties. Gregory would have to bend and stoop and strain to reach them if Mycroft remained standing. It was very impractical.

Mycroft was still self-conscious as he laid himself out on his bed. He felt like a useless lump as Gregory undid the pin holding his cape and loosened his tunic, drawing it over his head. Mycroft belatedly realized that _he_ should have been the one to do that. He should have undressed Gregory himself and turned it into a suggestive act the same way Gregory had done to him. Not that Mycroft had the faintest idea how to do that, but if he’d managed to think...

Gregory crawled onto the bed in nothing but his trousers, and Mycroft’s face- and other parts of his body- heated. He knew he was staring but couldn’t look away, watching the bunch and flex of muscles as Gregory moved toward him. He squirmed. He’d only ever seen, not touched, but now Gregory was here. In Mycroft’s bed.

“Are you alright?”

Mycroft nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“You’ll have to tell me...do I start _here_?” Gregory’s hands settled on Mycroft’s hips demonstrably. “Or _here_?”

He dragged his hands down Mycroft’s thighs, over his legs, ending at his ankles. Mycroft bit his lip to keep from moaning. He shifted, spreading his legs in what he was certain was a very whorish way. He didn’t care. He wanted his clothes gone so he could be pleasured by Captain Lestrade. It was hard to think over the pounding of his pulse.

“Mycroft? Here?” Gregory’s hands were at his hips again and Mycroft bucked, pushing into the contact. He heard Gregory’s breath catch.

“Or here?” Gregory’s hands made the journey back down his legs and Mycroft had never known his legs were so sensitive, that it could feel...

“There.” He managed to say, nodding to where Gregory’s hands were wrapped around his ankles. “It’s...the laces start there. I mean. They don’t start there.” He stammered. “They start at my hips but you- you need to start...start there. To undo them.”

“Very well. I serve at your pleasure.”

Mycroft’s body _flamed_ with desire. Gregory had said those words hundreds, if not thousands, of times before. It was the standard reply of a Captain to his Prince that Gregory said concerning everything- from obeying an order to fetching a letter to offering to run someone through. But never before had the connotation been so provocative.

Mycroft knew that from now on, he would never be able to hear those words without remembering this.

Gregory knelt at his feet, and Mycroft propped himself up on his elbows to watch because if he’d thought his arms were surprisingly sensitive, it was nothing to how his legs felt as each lace was undone. Kisses were once again given to each newly revealed patch of skin and Gregory progressed higher…

Sucking kisses to his inner thigh. A brief swipe of wetness when Gregory’s tongue traced a line up- up-

Mycroft squirmed, breathing shallowly, and his cock strained against the mercifully loosened fabric. He closed his eyes, feeling himself getting wet, and slumped back against the bed with a moan, staring up at the canopy over his bed while Gregory started on the other leg of his trousers. Gregory knew what he was doing, Mycroft would give him that, because places Mycroft never been touched before, places he’d never given any _thought_ to were suddenly marvelously sensitive when Gregory touched them with his lips and fingers and tongue.

“Please…” He whispered, agonized, and Gregory’s breath ghosted warm over his inner thigh, so close to-

“Mycroft?”

He’d never thought that he would hear Gregory’s voice coming from _there_ , between his legs, when he was nearly naked and had an erection and he wanted...he wanted…

“Please...Just.” Words failed him. He couldn’t ask for what he wanted. He _couldn’t_.

“What is it?”

This slow, methodical seduction was driving him mad. He couldn’t take much more. But Mycroft may have stayed silent and let Gregory carry on with it anyway...if not for the brush of his fingers, skimming and tickling and then running beneath the loose fabric of his trousers, grazing along the bend of Mycroft’s leg, where thigh met hip, mere _inches_ from where he was hard.

Mycroft surged up, startling Gregory whose eyes went wide in alarm- before he pulled the Alpha into a kiss, artlessly mashing their lips together.

“Please, Gregory- I need-”

“What?” Gregory sounded just as breathless and desperate as he was and instead of making Mycroft feel better, it made him feel _worse_. “What do you need, Mycroft?”

Mycroft licked his lips, reaching for the fasteners at the front of Gregory’s trousers. “You.”

“Gods, yes-”

They rushed to discard the rest of their clothes in a heated blur. Mycroft’s trousers were stripped the rest of the way off and thrown to the floor, the laces hopelessly tangling as they sailed through the air, and were quickly joined quickly by Gregory’s.

They couldn’t stop kissing, barely pausing for breath or to separate. Mycroft didn’t have time to be embarrassed that he was naked in front of his Captain, or that he was so obviously hard, or that, when Gregory’s fingers trailed up and back, to a _very_ private place, he was already wet, because when Gregory felt the slickness he moaned as if he were being tortured. Mycroft couldn’t spare the worry that it might seem sluttish or what Gregory may think of him. Not when he wanted so much.

“Yes, Gregory. Yes-” He begged fitfully when Gregory moved over him, and wrapped his legs around his waist. Gregory’s fingers brushed against him as he positioned his cock at the entrance to Mycroft’s body and it was so unexpected that Mycroft tensed-

He gasped when Gregory’s cock sank inside him with a twinge and Gregory was obviously trying to go as slow as possible, his muscles shaking as he held himself back, but there was still an uncomfortable stretch and burn- Mycroft was sore from the trauma of his last heat- but he savagely bit his lip, refusing to say anything to make Gregory stop. He didn’t want this to stop and it was extremely gratifying the way Gregory’s brow furrowed, his mouth falling open in pure pleasure when he felt the tight clench of Mycroft’s body once he was all the way inside.

“Oh…” Mycroft tried to relax and let himself adjust because while he may use toys during his heat, having a real cock inside him was...different. Especially when there was someone attached to said real cock, an Alpha whose arms were shaking even harder to either side of Mycroft as he flexed his hips, giving a short, tentative thrust. Mycroft gasped- pleasure and pain flaring together- and let his eyes flutter closed, then opened, staring up at Gregory in a daze when he gave another thrust, sliding his cock inside, little by little. He dropped to his elbows, inadvertently grinding himself into Mycroft- tearing another gasp from his throat- and caught his lips in a kiss.

“Gods, you feel so good…” He murmured and Mycroft whimpered in response.

“So do you.” He breathed, and he wasn’t sure how what he’d said was so provocative, but Gregory moaned as if it was, burying his face in Mycroft’s neck and starting to move, thrusting with purpose, hard enough that Mycroft felt it every time, but slow enough that he could feel the drag and pull of his cock as every inch of it slid out...out...out...and then was rocked back inside, his body stretching to accommodate it and knocking the breath from his lungs. Mycroft grasped at Gregory’s shoulders, his back, his arms, anywhere he could touch. He couldn’t think of anything to do or say- were people even supposed to converse during coitus? All he could manage was a silly litany of “yes” and “please” and sometimes he varied it with an “oh yes, please”.

“Gregory-!”

He wrapped his legs tighter around his hips, urging him to thrust harder, faster, and deeper, and Gregory obliged with a curse. Mycroft moaned, his nails scoring down Gregory’s back when his grip slipped as he pulled at him-

“Sorry- I’m sorry-!”

“Fuck- Mycroft-!” Gregory grabbed at his wrists and wrenched his hands away from his shoulders, pressing them against the bed to either side of Mycroft’s head, holding them there as he started to pound into him, his hips smacking wetly against Mycroft’s arse with every thrust. Mycroft’s eyes flared wide and he cried out. Gregory tried to stop, but he didn’t seem able, hips jumping, pushing his cock inside Mycroft with needy jerks.

“Are you alright? Sweetheart? Are you alright?"

“Y-yes…” And he was. He was alright. _More_ than alright. His cock rubbed against his stomach, jolted by Gregory’s thrusts, and it throbbed to the tempo of his heartbeat, a frantic, agitated cadance. He desperately wanted to touch himself but couldn’t- Gregory’s hands still holding his own firm against the bed. But that was alright too. Mycroft clenched around his cock, groaning. He thought he could manage to come that way. It felt so wonderful, both good and _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch-_

Gregory leaned down, kissing him and nipping at his bottom lip. “You’re so gorgeous like this...so fucking gorgeous, Mycroft...you feel so good, sweetheart-”

“Oh…oh, Gregory…”

“Yes, Mycroft. Yes...Come on, sweetheart. Just let go.”

Mycroft didn’t know what in the world that meant. Let go of what? Where? Gregory was already holding his hands, but he didn’t want to ask him to stop and explain, not while they were having sex. Maybe...maybe Gregory wanted to hear him talk more? Like he’d just done? Was that something he would like?

“You feel-...so good.” Mycroft tried. It was what Gregory had said to him earlier, and was very embarrassing to say, but Gregory didn’t seem to think so. He moaned, slanting his lips and kissing him harder, tongue stroking along his own, and Mycroft took that as a good sign. He was doing something right.

“Oh...oh gods, you feel so good, Gregory.” He whispered again, the words jarred from him by each of Gregory’s thrusts. Embarrassment was swift but immediately blotted out by the flattering way Gregory looked at him, as if Mycroft were doing something fantastic. It fed Mycroft’s own arousal and he strained against Gregory’s hold, wanting to touch himself-

“Better...better than...m-my heats...I didn’t...didn’t know…” It wasn't a lie. Mycroft hadn't realized how good this- sex outside of his heat- could feel and he trembled from a combination of arousal and need. "So much...better..."

“Gods, sweetheart…” Gregory’s thrusts turned erratic, slower, but hard, shoving his cock into Mycroft with a graceless rhythm.

Mycroft arched his back, loving the way Gregory was staring at him. He wanted the Alpha to always look at him like that: like he was desirable. Even without touching himself, he was nearing orgasm and he tightened around Gregory’s cock, clenching. “Didn’t...know it could...could ever feel so...so good...that you’d make- make me...feel like this...”

Gregory gasped and abruptly stopped thrusting. He held himself rigid, trembling from the strain. Mycroft didn’t know what he was doing. What was wrong. Why he’d stopped. He was so close.

“Gregory- you’re...please keep going...please f-fuck me...I….you’re going to make me...orgasm-”

“Oh, gods-!” Gregory abruptly pulled out and Mycroft watched, confused, as Gregory’s hand flew over his own cock, stroking it with quick jerks. Mycroft’s body still hummed with unsatisfied arousal and he was suddenly worried- had it not felt as good for Gregory? Was he unable to find satisfaction with Mycroft? Had Mycroft done something wrong?

Gregory had barely touched himself though, before he suddenly tensed and was coming, groaning as thick ropes of come spurted from his cock and onto the bedding between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft watched, open-mouthed. It was very pleasant watching Gregory come, his cock pulsing noticeably and Mycroft loved the way he groaned: low, drawn out, and rough. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment though, because now the sex was over. He supposed it was fine. He could finish himself off later, if he felt like it. It had still been lovely to have Gregory like this.

He fidgeted, legs trembling and anxiously pleated the bedding between his fingers. He felt as if he were in heat, his entire lower body _aching_ and throbbing and he tried not to draw attention to his erection. What if he’d supposed to come while they were having sex? Like he would during a heat? Was that expected? Was that why Gregory hadn’t let him touch himself? Had he expected that? Or had Mycroft been bad at sex? How was he even supposed to know? It made Mycroft feel a bit disgruntled that Gregory hadn’t made his specifications clear before they started because it’d placed him at a distinct disadvantage.

“Oh gods.” Gregory breathed shakily, letting go of his spent cock and slumping forward. “Oh, gods. Mycroft... _Fuck_. I’m _so_ sorry, sweetheart- shit.” He sounded upset- unhappy- and Mycroft’s stomach dropped. He didn’t want him to regret this.

“What are you apologizing for? It was very nice.” And it had been. Mycroft had loved everything they’d done, just as he’d known he would. Gregory was a very skillful lover and he had managed to thoroughly arouse him...

Mycroft suppressed a whine and fisted his hands in the sheets to keep himself from touching his cock. He thought it would be rather rude to do. Gregory was _right there_ , kneeling between his spread legs. Gregory glanced up at him, raising a tired eyebrow, and Mycroft gave him a smile, hoping to make him feel better. It didn’t seem to work. His expression morphed into something close to incredulity and so then, because he didn’t know what else to say-

“Thank you.”

Gregory stared at him in silence, looking to where Mycroft was still hard, wetness slicked between his thighs, and Mycroft resisted the urge to cover himself.

“I suppose...we should probably clean up?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Gregory shook his head, smiling, and Mycroft only had time to wonder why he seemed amused- when he kissed him and Mycroft shivered when Gregory slipped his hand between them to grip at his cock. He moaned into Gregory’s mouth. Even to his own ears it sounded needy.

“I apologize. I-”

Gregory broke their kiss, moving back down his body, and then, without so much as a ‘by your leave’, slid his mouth down and over the whole of Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft yelped and heat streaked down his legs. His hands instinctively leaped down to grip at the short strands of Gregory’s hair as the Alpha swirled his tongue around the sensitive flesh and sucked lightly.

“Gregory!”

Mycroft had no words. None at all. He didn’t even know what to plead for as Gregory sucked at his cock. Everything was tightness. Slick heat. Rapidly rising pleasure. He could only stare down at Gregory in shock, startled to realize that he was looking up at him while he sucked his cock, his eyes dark and amused.

Mycroft was already so close that even the surprise of what Gregory was doing didn’t put him off, and he was only able to gasp a quick warning before his orgasm overtook him. He expected Gregory to pull away- but he didn't- and Mycroft spilled into Gregory’s mouth with short, quick bursts of pure, satiating pleasure, distantly horrified. And extremely, utterly, captivatingly aroused.

When it was over, he was breathing shakily, eyes closed as he panted, and felt Gregory nuzzle at his cheek, his chin, pressing kisses everywhere he could.

“Now you can thank me, sweetheart.”

* * *

 

Mycroft’s body flushed all over from the memory and he forced himself to take his hand away from the laces of his trousers, reigning himself and his wayward thoughts under control. He was in public. In front of the entire Court. Seated near his mother. Now was _not_ the time for salacious remembrances.

He couldn’t stop himself glancing down the table, though, discreetly turning his head and straining his eyes to the sides- helpless to the urge to look at Captain Lestrade-

Gregory was staring back at him.

Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat and he hurriedly looked away. He felt terribly exposed, but no one else had even noticed the exchange. No one else knew that beneath his clothes, Captain Lestrade was covered in scratch marks. No one knew they had fucked earlier. No one knew….

Mycroft touched the missed laces on his trousers again, heart thundering.


	11. Chapter 11

The first course was soup. A thick, pretty, cream colored soup that both looked and smelled divine. John’s stomach rumbled and the sight of hot, buttered rolls accompanying it was enough to make his mouth water.

But when he took a tentative spoonful of soup…it was stone cold.

He stared at the bowl in front of him, then darted sly glances around the table…but no one else seemed surprised.

“It’s _vichyssoise_.” Stamford murmured- which told John absolutely fucking nothing- and tucked into his own bowl with a pleased hum, the frigid temperature not putting him off in the least. John watched the people around him eating, spoons clinking delicately against the sides of their bowls.

He took another spoonful.

It was cold.

Soup was not supposed to be _cold_. John couldn’t even appreciate the flavor- onion and spice, something nice and creamy- because of the shock. The velvety liquid felt wrong in his mouth. He manfully swallowed another mouthful (he knew it would be offensive if he refused to eat at the Queen’s table) and did his best not to look disgusted. He swirled his spoon through the soup, working himself up to try and eat a bit more…and caught Sherlock staring at him.

“Tell me, John.” The Queen began and John put down his spoon, grateful for the interruption. “How do you find Marseille?”

Her tone was rich with the accent unique to Marseille and which, to John, sounded a bit like music. He’d liked the sound of it when he first heard someone from Northumbria speak- but was starting to dread hearing it from the Queen’s mouth. The lovely accent rang untrue, no matter how cheerful she sounded. Even when Mycroft spoke, the accent sounded pompous and condescending, nebulous insults swirling throughout the strange vowels and grating on John’s nerves.

When Sherlock spoke, though, the accent lilted prettily, vowels rolling just so, and different syllables stressed. John hadn’t heard Sherlock speak much at all, but he wanted to hear more. He liked the sound of Sherlock’s voice. It was light and pretty. Even John’s inescapably plain name was given a bit of grandeur when Sherlock said it- not the common, short “John” but emphasized, sounding more like “ _Jawn_.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Marseille.” She gave John a secretive smile, eyes sparkling as they darted to her youngest son and then back to John. “How do you like it?”

John hesitated. He thought he understood the Queen’s meaning, and she was not asking how he liked the palace, the people, or the weather.

How do you like my son?

How do you like your future Omega Consort?

How do you like Sherlock?

John hated conversations with hidden double-meanings. It was how conversations were almost always held in his father’s Court and while John had lots of practice, it was exhausting to go through elaborate verbal parries to get one’s true meaning across, whether that was an insult, a compliment, arranging a rendezvous, garnering support, pleading for protection, or plotting a murder. As he thought, weighing his answer, John briefly wondered what it would be like to just once have a godsdamn conversation with someone without speaking round and round and round in elusive riddles.

It’d be nice, he thought, to just be able to _say_ what he fucking wanted.

At least once in a while.

“I find Marseille…very beautiful.” John chose his words with care. It wasn’t a lie. Sherlock may be small and tiny and intimidatingly innocent- he may scare John half to death, actually, just by _existing_ \- but he was very pretty. “And…extraordinary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such loveliness in all my life.”

“Surely you are exaggerating, John. I refuse to believe that, in all your years, you have not seen equal beauty at home.”

John clenched his jaw in annoyance. He supposed that meant Prince Mycroft had told his mother about John’s _numerous sexual exploits_.

Gods-fucking-dammit.

Suddenly, John wondered if Mycroft had told his little brother too. Had he warned Sherlock about John as if he were a dangerous Alpha? Had that been the reason for Sherlock’s upset that morning? Was that why Sherlock acted as if he were afraid of John?

John cut his eyes across the table at Prince Mycroft, but the angry look was completely wasted. Prince Mycroft was absorbed in his wine, staring into the ruby red depths with a blank expression. He seemed unaware that they were even having a conversation. It was very odd behavior from the haughty Beta who, from John’s experience, inserted himself and his unwanted opinions into anything and everything being said. But this evening, he was removed from it all, apparently oblivious to what was happening around him.

John supposed the Prince was ill. Not that he cared. That just meant he wouldn’t have to listen to the Prince’s arrogant opinions.

Then again…

John darted a quick glance at Prince Mycroft’s bruised face. He didn’t like Prince Mycroft- at all- but John could admire the Prince for his confidence (even if it annoyed him) and his self-assurance (even if it set John’s teeth on edge) and to see him brought low…

He may hate Prince Mycroft and every damn word that came out of his mouth, but John wasn’t a monster. He knew firsthand what it was like to be the object of a parent’s cruel attentions. John turned back to the Queen, still annoyed, but disquieted.

“I won’t insult your intelligence, Your Majesty, and claim that in my very limited experience I never witnessed _any_ beauty in Scotland,” John weighed each word before speaking, hoping to convey that his _numerous sexual exploits_ were not _actually_ so numerous as she’d been lead to believe, but also that the ones he’d had meant nothing. They were in the past. He was committed to Sherlock.

“But it is no exaggeration when I tell you…that the _little_ beauty which I left behind in Scotland would never be able to hold a candle to what I’ve found in Marseille. I confess that…the loveliness I’ve found in Marseille is…unparalleled.”

The Queen smiled at him, pleased, and John knew he had scored some unseen point in a game he hadn’t even known they were playing. The night, which had already been horrible, seemed endless.

“I am glad that you have found Marseille to your liking, John. It is a good partiality to develop, after all.”

John thought that was putting his and Sherlock’s situation mildly.

In the extreme.

“And I hope you have found your private rooms equally pleasing?”

“Um.” John stalled for time, confused. He didn’t know what the double-meaning was. It seemed like such an ordinary query.

He faltered, trying to quickly decipher what the Queen was really asking. But what the hell else could that possibly mean?

_“And I hope you have found your private rooms equally pleasing?”_

Asking about his private rooms was a very personal question, on par with asking what he’d thought of Sherlock. This was about John himself, though. If Marseille stood for Sherlock, what did John’s private rooms stand for?

Other Omegas?

Was the Queen asking if John intended to take an Omega lover while he was living in Marseille? It wasn’t an unfounded question considering that his marriage to Sherlock was seven years away. Everyone expected John to take a lover in the interval while he waited.

Except John.

Did she want to know if John had already planned any clandestine affairs? Or perhaps she wanted to know if John’s private rooms in Scotland had been frequently occupied by other Omegas? Maybe the Queen was asking if John planned to take a lover and would therefore be using his private rooms in the palace for furtive sexual encounters. Would she then use their conversation to warn him against doing such a thing as her son had? Encourage it? Merely politely want to know?

Or she could just want to know if he liked the fucking drapes.

“Um. Yes. Yes, I like my rooms very much.” John began, hoping he wouldn’t offend her. “They’re a beautiful suite of rooms that you’ve kindly granted me, and much better than the cold and empty rooms I left behind. I…look forward to occupying them…in a greater, and more honorable capacity…than…I did…my rooms in Scotland.” He finished slowly, frowning, not even sure what the fuck he was saying by the end, but the Queen didn’t seem confused.

“Good! I am glad to hear you are settling in well. You must let us know if there is anything in particular you require. Please, do not hesitate to ask. I hope you will feel very much at home here, especially since Mycroft tells me that you have no plans to return to Scotland.”

The bottom dropped out of John’s stomach.

He looked at the Prince in question...but Mycroft was still absorbed in whatever he was thinking, hands beneath the table. He wasn’t even eating. Ignoring everyone around him. He probably felt they were all beneath him, John thought caustically, and wouldn’t condescend to speak to anyone because he was so much better than they were. John rolled his eyes- and caught Captain Lestrade glancing worriedly at his Prince. He was probably concerned that Prince Mycroft would offend the Scottish nobles with his complete disregard, a possibility which Mycroft didn’t seem to give a toss about.

John grimaced before smoothing over his expression and giving the Queen what he hoped was a friendly smile. He rather doubted it was. His face felt stretched and uncomfortable.

“I apologize for my confusion, Your Majesty, but that’s the first time I’ve heard of any such plans.” He wanted to throttle the smug arsehole sat across the table from him.

The Queen looked very surprised, dark eyebrows arching. “Indeed? That does surprise me. Mycroft made it quite clear to me that your position in your father’s Court was tenuous at best, and perilous in the extreme. Did you not, darling?”

Everyone looked to Prince Mycroft.

Long, awkward seconds passed before Mycroft even realized all the attention had shifted to himself. When he did, his eyes widened and he darted an alarmed look around the table, saw everyone staring, and a light blush crept up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Forgive me, ma’am. I’m afraid I was…distracted.”

“Whatever’s the matter with you this evening, Mycroft?” His mother frowned, and John froze with apprehension. He wondered how she would react to her son’s inattention. He knew how his father would have reacted. “You’re never so absentminded as this. You do look so very pale, darling. Are you unwell?”

“No, ma’am. I’m…forgive me. I’m perfectly well. I was only…thinking of a particular detail I may have missed concerning the plans for the Royal Tour. I was planning how best to correct the problem.”

The Queen was shaking her head before Mycroft finished speaking, smiling fondly. “Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft. What did I tell you earlier, darling?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “Enjoy yourself this evening. You deserve all the happiness possible, and this evening in particular. You have done such an excellent service, selflessly sacrificing your time and energy for the good of your brother, and we are all so very proud of you. Myself more than anyone. You are everything a mother could wish for in a son, and I love you so.”

She beamed at him, tender affection in her eyes. Mycroft looked even paler.

“Which is why I want you to enjoy yourself. Even if it is only for this one evening before you fall back into all your plans and reports.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mycroft acquiesced and his mother seemed satisfied. She explained her earlier question concerning John and Mycroft’s belief that he would remain in Marseille. Mycroft looked unrepentant.

“The Scottish Court is not the best place to remain if one values one’s life. It was my understanding that, should John attempt to return to Scotland, his life could be in danger from his sister.”

“Yes, exactly. We have heard the dreadful rumors concerning your sister, John, and her machinations to secure her future throne by possibly assassinating you. That, accompanied by the general backbiting and deadly plots of the Court which seem to pour into our ears daily...It seems a very cruel place. Surely you would have no plans to return to such a savage environment?” She asked, indignant on his behalf, and John bristled.

That savage, cruel place was his home. She had no right to talk about things she didn’t understand.

 _Yes_ , John’s situation in his father’s Court was worrying, and _yes_ , John knew his possibly deadly fate if he returned to Scotland. He knew the rumors. He knew his struggles.

He also knew the comfort and love he’d been forced to leave behind.

His bedroom which had been his safe haven all his life.

The friends he’d never see again.

His mother whom he hadn’t been allowed to say goodbye to.

The Queen had no godsdamn right. It was John’s life, not hers. He could do with it as he pleased-

Stamford touched John’s knee under the table, silently reminding him to be polite. It was the last thing John wanted to do. But it was no use getting offended. Because as the Queen had pointed out- Scotland was a savage, cruel place. John knew his fate if he returned.

And not just from his sister.

He pasted a smile on his face and conceded the point as politely as he could. “I doubt I shall go back very often, Your Majesty.”

“Very often? No, no. I must insist that you not go back at all, John. You must never undertake such a venture.”

There was steely authority in her voice and dread crept down John’s spine. She couldn’t do that…could she?

“What should happen to your betrothal with Sherlock if you visited Scotland and were taken prisoner? Held captive by your sister? Would she ask for gold, extorting the Northumbrian throne for your safe return…or would she be desperate enough that she would rather see your blood than any caravans of precious jewels?” She shook her head. “No, John. I would much rather you think of Northumbria as your home now. This is where your future lies. There’s nothing left for you in Scotland. The past is dead to you; this is your new beginning.” She gave John one of her never-ending smiles, kind and sweet and caring.

John hated her.

“You have a new home, and a new family. You have no need of any other.”

John gave a bland reply which pleased the Queen and Stamford, but inwardly he was screaming. Railing against the injustice. Furious over the total lack of control he had over…anything.

His life had never been his own. Decisions were made for him by his father, without ever consulting John. He’d been sent to places he didn’t want to go, forced into the company of people he didn’t want to see, and instructed to behave in ways he didn’t want to act. Even his betrothal to Sherlock had been arranged without consulting him first. He’d had no control of it. Of anything.

He’d hated it then, and he hated it now. It didn’t matter that the Queen was right and that John’s life would be in danger if he returned home. Because Scotland _was_ his home. The thought of never seeing it again- of never seeing his mother again- was painful, sharp as a knife slicing through his chest and leaving him just as wounded.

“Well. Since you cannot return to Scotland, John, perhaps you may agree to tell us about your former home?” The Queen asked with soft, thoughtful kindness…and John wondered if she were being malicious on purpose, forcing him to remember his home when she had just prevented him from ever leaving Northumbria.

It was a disingenuous thought.

Then his eyes drifted across the table to where Mycroft was once again occupied, deep in thought, the bruise marring his otherwise perfect face. Beside him, Sherlock was tearing his roll into tiny pieces, dunking them in his soup one by one, avoiding conversation after the embarrassment of his forced apology.

“John? You must tell us- I have a deep desire to know- what are the castles like in Scotland?”

* * *

 

As dinner progressed, the Queen aimed question after question at John in rapid succession. He barely had time to eat between listening to what she said, interpreting any double meanings her questions contained, and then answering those questions- both the explicit and implied ones.

She wanted to know about the weather. John’s father. The line of succession. His family and all their relations. His mother. The kingdom. The people. Their way of life. What his interests were. Who his tutors had been. What he had enjoyed studying. What he did with his time. His religious preferences. Friendships and acquaintances he’d left behind. His relationship with his sister. How strained their childhood had been. If he were worried about her rumored threats.

Most of the questions, John knew she already had the answers to, but he also knew it would be impolite to remind her of that. The questions set him on edge, turning his previously fraying nerves into tattered fragments, but he kept control of himself as best he could. He wanted to impress his future mother-in-law...and every once in a while, he caught Sherlock sneaking glances at him from under his fringe.

He wanted to impress Sherlock too.

So he answered, calm as he described his father’s angry tempers, the fights he and his sister had gotten into as children, the drafty castles he’d lived in, his spotty series of tutors, his relatives and their titles and his own useless one, the freezing winters and the mild summers, the flowers which had bloomed on the moor, his few friends…

By the time dessert was served, John’s throat was sore and he’d given up entirely on eating. He hadn’t eaten more than a mouthful the whole evening, and the pretty confection of cream and browned sugar that was placed in front of him held no appeal. He was sick. The constant reminder of everything he’d left behind and what he would never see or experience again settling over him with a crushing weight.

“I am given to understand that you are an excellent fighter, John.”

John fiddled with his spoon. “You are?”

Stamford pinched him under the table. John ignored the reprimand.

“Do not be so modest. Mycroft’s Captain of the Guard informed us of your skills with a sword- and every other weapon you care to take up. He said you were highly proficient.”

“As I told you earlier, there’s not much to do during the winter months. Everything’s covered with snow and the roads are too treacherous to travel very far, so there’s plenty of time to improve your skills in whatever you want.”

“You will find that our winter’s are milder than Scotland; however, I hope that does not diminish your impetus for improvement. It is a useful ability for an Alpha King to have, combat experience and knowledge of weapons and war. I shall hope to hear of you training quite diligently.”

“I hope you shall…”

“Prince John.” Captain Lestrade’s voice was unexpected, drawing every eye at the table. He hadn’t joined in the conversations all evening, choosing to eat silently and be content with darting the occasional glance at his Prince. “If it pleases you, I would like to extend an invitation for you to come down to the barracks and train with the Prince’s Guard. There’s plenty of room and a wide range of weapons and various gear for you to utilize during sparring. We would be honored to host you.”

“Thank you, Captain.” John was pleased, even more so when Lestrade offered him a polite smile and seemed...truly sincere in his offer. Of course, as the future king of Northumbria, the Alpha Prince who was betrothed to the Crown Prince, John could invite himself down to the barracks and train with anyone, any time he wanted. Everyone at the table knew that- but John thought it was better to be invited, for the offer to be made instead of forced.

“We start training at dawn, but if that’s too early-“

“No, dawn is perfect.” John wasn’t one of those lazy courtiers who didn’t get out of bed until noon. Lestrade gave him an approving nod which John felt himself warm under. He had respect for the Captain. He seemed like an honorable person, and John admired his fighting style, and wasn’t above admitting to himself that he wanted the older Alpha to think well of him. “I’m always up early.”

“Not like our Sherlock.” The Queen interrupted, dismissing Captain Lestrade as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “We count ourselves lucky if he rouses before 10 most mornings. It is a lazy, slothful habit, unbecoming of an Omega Consort as I have told him countless times. Perhaps, as Sherlock’s Alpha Patron, that will be one of the first changes you make?”

The question was asked in a delicate manner, but John felt the mood at the table shift dramatically.

It was an aspect of his betrothal to Sherlock which John had done his best to ignore, but it was foolish to keep pretending. He hated to think of it, but from the moment the betrothal was completed, John had been given the Right of Alpha Patronage over Sherlock.

It was an established practice, ubiquitous in arranged marriages among the upper classes. In a betrothal, an Alpha Patron was a designated authority figure who held significant sway in their underage Omega’s life. The ultimate authority was, of course, still Sherlock’s mother, but as Sherlock’s Patron, John had the right to make a myriad of decisions on Sherlock’s behalf- without asking his input or consent, or even bothering to consult Sherlock’s wishes over those decisions.

It was an established practice, but John’s Right of Alpha Patronage had still been one of the issues Prince Mycroft had gone toe-to-toe with King Watson over during the marriage negotiations.

Mycroft had argued that it was an antiquated notion. Entirely unnecessary. Sherlock was a child who needed his mother’s guidance. John, he said, would gain complete authority over Sherlock when they married anyway. He didn’t need to do so any sooner. Until then, Mycroft argued, Sherlock should have the right to make his own decisions…with John’s involvement, he’d only reluctantly added.

King Watson had guffawed, hearty and loud, while Prince Mycroft stared at him in withering silence. “Let an Omega make their own decisions?” He’d choked through his laughter. “What’s next? Letting them knot themselves too?”

John had turned away from his father to hide his disgust. Prince’s Mycroft expression had been eloquent enough.

Prince Mycroft continued to calmly argue his point- but King Watson refused to be swayed. He’d ranted for hours about why it was better for an Omega to be controlled by their Alpha from an early age. It established an Alpha’s dominance. Taught the Omega who they belonged to. Didn’t allow them to get any crazy ideas that they were more capable than they really were. Alphas had more intelligence than an Omega could ever hope to attain, he’d added, and they therefore needed to be guided by an Alpha who had their best interests in mind. Omegas were too weak and delicate and feeble-minded to be allowed to make their own decisions. They were always going into heat which everyone knew addled their minds and weakened their bodies, and they would inevitably make the wrong decisions and damage themselves in some terrible way if they were allowed to govern their own lives. It was up to their Alpha, King Watson finished smugly, to guide their Omega and take care of them as they saw fit.

John clenched his jaw, trying not to listen. He’d seen his mother made unhappy too many times by his father’s carelessness. King Watson controlled every aspect of his Omega wife’s life- from the type of clothes she wore to how she spent her days, to who she saw and what books she read, to what she ate at mealtimes and when she was allowed out of doors. Her entire life was held in his tight, greedy fist. She was completely dependent on him…and completely miserable.

John didn’t want to be Sherlock’s Alpha Patron.

Prince Mycroft didn’t want John to be Sherlock’s Alpha Patron either.

He’d been unwilling to back down, and the marriage negotiations stalled for days, each side refusing to bend. It looked as if the entire thing would be over before it even began. John hadn’t known if he was happy and relieved, or disappointed.

Then, abruptly, surprising everyone, Prince Mycroft conceded the battle. He accepted that John would be Sherlock’s Patron, with more grace than John had expected, and John found himself reluctantly signing his name to the marriage documents which, among other things, guaranteed his unfettered Patronage rights over Sherlock. King Watson had crowed, happy he’d not only won the battle of wills but that his son would have Alpha Patronage- a point of pride in his mind. Prince Mycroft had let him ramble on and on, uncharacteristically silent.

John spent the next few months trying not to think about it.

John was Sherlock’s Alpha, his future husband and mate, and the Right of Alpha Patronage essentially enabled John to do with Sherlock as he pleased. It was his duty to protect and care for Sherlock’s health and well-being…in whatever manner he deemed necessary. John could decide Sherlock’s daily routines- down to the very minute if he wanted. He could choose Sherlock’s tutors and what he was taught, if anything at all. Excursions Sherlock was allowed to go on, and hobbies and talents he should learn, as well as his general appearance.

It was all John’s to decide.

He could choose the people Sherlock was and wasn’t allowed to see. His servants. What was best to be done for his health and exercise. Foods he should eat and foods he shouldn’t…

The only person who could undo John’s decisions was the Queen herself.

It turned John’s stomach to think of controlling Sherlock’s life like an egotistical tyrant. Like his father had done to his mother. It was a common way for an Alpha to behave, expected of a Patron, but John had sworn to never do that to Sherlock. He hoped he could get by with never making any decisions for Sherlock.

He knew it was an impractical hope.

“Sherlock needs a firm hand, John. All Omegas do. I know that you are younger than most Alpha Patrons, and that the demands and expectations placed on your shoulders are numerous, but I have thus far been greatly impressed with your maturity and intelligence. You encompass everything that is charming and vital in an Alpha and I know that you are smart and more than up to the task of what is being asked of you. I have confidence in you and I expect to see you exercising your Right of Patronage. Frequently.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. He decided it was best to say nothing.

“You should start your relationship with Sherlock as you mean to go on. I am sure I do not need to tell you that if you do not demand his respect now, it will be a continual uphill battle to gain it. From what I understand, your father was successful by demanding his Omega Consort’s obedience early in their bond. You observed, I am sure, that he was never argued with concerning his decisions?”

“Yes, I did observe.” John forced a smile. It felt horrible on his face.

“Well then! I will see to it personally that in the morning you are given a full report of Sherlock’s daily activities. You may then decide if any changes need to be made. I have done what I thought was best concerning his education and pastimes, but it is _you_ who will be his Alpha and succeed me to the throne. What do you want your Consort to be versed in? Sherlock is still young enough for you to shape him and his ideas and opinions as you please.” She gave her youngest a bright smile, patting at his curls and doting on him. “Do not hesitate to make changes, John. It was Mycroft who wanted Sherlock to attend the lectures, and it was Mycroft who said Sherlock wanted to learn to play the violin- but whether he continues to do those things is your decision. Mycroft is not Sherlock’s Alpha Patron. _You_ are.”

Across the table, Sherlock had gone very, very still and Prince Mycroft stirred himself from his absent reverie, detecting his little brother’s distress. He looked between Sherlock and his mother, frowning.

“Sherlock loves playing the violin-“

“He can find other instruments to love, Mycroft.” The Queen said dismissively, rolling her eyes and looking to John as if he should share in a joke. “Honestly. It is nothing that cannot be replaced- and probably with something better. What if John dislikes the violin? He will not want Sherlock caterwauling on it at all hours as he does now if John prefers a different instrument. Would you?”

It was clear to John that, until this point, Mycroft had made most of the decisions for Sherlock…and probably, John suspected, tempering the Queen’s decisions as best he could. It was equally clear that the Queen didn’t care what her youngest wanted and it was so reminiscent of his father that John ground his teeth, anger rising in a hot swipe through his chest.

He hated the Queen, John realized. He absolutely loathed her.

“I love the violin.” He snapped, and Stamford pinched him in warning. “And I’d love to hear Sherlock play sometime…if he wants to, of course.”

“Of course! Sherlock will play for you whenever you like. Oh, and while we are on the subject and before I forget: I would suggest, John, that you develop a way to redirect the excessive time Sherlock wastes down at the barracks into a more useful endeavor suitable to an Omega Consort. I have mentioned this to Mycroft but he has never seen fit to curb Sherlock’s activities there-”

“Do you train down at the barracks with the Guard?” John asked Sherlock directly, heartily sick of talking with the Queen about the little Omega. He’d rather hear things from Sherlock…but instead of answering, Sherlock mutely blinked at him.

The table went silent, everyone staring at him.

John realized he’d made a serious blunder. Had he not been supposed to speak to Sherlock, or-?

“Sherlock’s never held a weapon in his life.” The Queen tittered, as if John were trying to be amusing.

John looked to Sherlock who still didn’t say anything. “He…he hasn’t?”

“Why on earth would he have done? He is an Omega. It is not exactly proper for them to learn such a rough Alpha pastime like fighting, is it?”

The utter ridiculousness of that statement threw John. It was a level stupidity he wouldn’t have thought to find in Northumbria. Even his mother owned a collection of daggers, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and precious gems, a gift from King Watson so she could defend herself if she were ever attacked. He would never have suspected how often his wife thought of using the knives on him.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I think it’s an incredibly necessary skill for anyone to have. Even an Omega. _Especially_ an Omega.” 

“You truly think it is a proper thing for an Omega to learn how to fight?” The Queen asked, haughty, and John could feel the ground shifting beneath his feet, his newfound favor with her precariously slipping and threatening to waver.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I do. I think it’s _very_ important for Omegas to learn to fight so they can protect and defend themselves. I’m not arguing for an Omega to join the Army or Guard, but it is best for them to learn how to take care of themselves. To prevent them from learning such a vital skill places them at a dangerous disadvantage.”

“But would you not agree that protecting and defending an Omega is what their Alpha is for? Or their Guard?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” John sat forward in his chair, vehemently arguing his point. “But what happens if the Omega’s Guard is not there to defend them? Or the Omega has somehow become separated from their Guard and are on their own? I don’t mean to disparage the Prince’s Guard.” He hastily said, not wanting to offend Captain Lestrade and realizing that was exactly what he was doing. “I know how trustworthy and capable the Prince’s Guard are, and how loyal to their Prince. But I like to think about things that _could_ happen, and I think it’s necessary to be prepared for any and all eventualities.”

“Indeed.” The Queen appraised John, sitting back in her chair, and John forged ahead.

“Yes. There could even be rebellion in the ranks and some dishonorable Alpha attempts to attack. An Omega must know how to defend themselves.”

“That is an excellent point, John. One never knows when there is treachery in the ranks of…say the Prince’s Guard. Just for an example, you understand. An Alpha who lacks all honor could take advantage if they sense a weakness in the Omega they are supposed to be protecting. They could attempt to then treat their Omega in a shameful way which would be damaging and potentially have lasting consequences.” Her eyes glinted. “So you truly wish Sherlock to learn how to fight?”

“Yes, but-“

“You have argued your point so well, John, that I will allow it- so long as it is _you_ who is teaching him.”

“Um. Th-thank you, Your Majesty.” John didn’t understand what had just happened, and when he looked away from the Queen his eyes collided with Sherlock’s-

-and his stomach dropped when he realized that he’d just made his first decision as Alpha Patron. Without bothering to ask Sherlock’s opinion.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

 

When dinner was over, the Queen and her Consort led the Court out of the dining hall and into the ballroom. Mycroft fell into step behind Sherlock and John, watching with amusement as John formally offered Sherlock his arm and his little brother blushed and stammered, forgetting which arm went where. He flailed his arm over and under and then over again agitatedly. John patiently waited for him to figure it out.

Captain Lestrade took up his standard place behind Mycroft as they walked and Mycroft’s heart fluttered at his proximity, his palms turning slick with sweat. He longed to be back upstairs, in his bedroom. Specifically, in his bed, so Gregory could undress him all over again and make him feel pleasure as he had done earlier.

They were lucky, Mycroft knew. No one knew what they’d done. They hadn’t been caught as he'd been afraid of. And now that the danger seemed past...he _wanted_...

The insides of his thighs were sore from being spread so wide to make room for Gregory between them and his arse twinged from where Gregory had roughly fucked him. Sitting through dinner had made Mycroft constantly aware of the small, awkward pains, distracting him from what was being said. It was terrible to think of carrying on with the gala, acting as if nothing were amiss, while he felt so…so _well used._

And he still wanted _more_.

Even knowing the risks, Mycroft’s body responded with scorching arousal that was indecent to feel in public, but he craved the satisfaction Gregory could give him.

He felt wanton. Sluttish. To be in a roomful of people fantasizing about being fucked by his Captain again, spreading his legs and moaning while Gregory moved between them, thrusting while he pinned Mycroft to the bed with his body, this time encouraging Mycroft to touch himself-

“Darling!”

Mycroft started violently and stumbled backward into Gregory, treading on his toes. The entire line of Gregory’s body briefly pressed all along Mycroft’s back. Warm. Strong. The Alpha reached out to steady him, his hand burning through Mycroft’s clothing, and he quickly jerked away.

“Mummy.” He reached for his control, letting his features ice over, desperately hoping that none of his thoughts were writ on his face. She didn’t look as if she knew what Mycroft had been thinking of. Thank the gods.

"Come with me. We must talk. I have a surprise for you, darling." She looped their arms together and walked with Mycroft ahead of Captain Lestrade who hung back, understanding his presence was not wanted- but Mycroft had not yet dismissed him and so he trailed behind.

“I know I said so earlier, but I want you to know…” She stepped closer, whispering in his ear. “Mycroft. I’ve been thinking of what we spoke of in the conservatory, and I know you’ve let what happened with the Captain effect you, for the most part because he’s the only Alpha who has ever paid attention to you. But I want you to understand, that he is not your only option as you seem to think-“

“I don’t-“

“You _do_ , poppet. But perhaps that is my fault. I’ve never let you experience an alternative, and since the two of you are so often together, it would be only natural for you to believe there were genuine feelings existing between yourself and the Captain. But there are not.”

_“The Captain does care for you." Gregory sneered, so wonderfully angry. "If I didn’t, I wouldn’t serve you. I wouldn’t risk my life for you…”_

_“Gods, you feel so good.”_

_“You’re so gorgeous like this…so fucking gorgeous, Mycroft…you feel so good, sweetheart…”_

_“Oh, sweetheart…”_

“I know that, ma’am.”

“I’m glad you do.” She stopped, cupping Mycroft’s cheek and from his periphery, Mycroft saw Gregory stop too, a few feet away, observing them. “He isn’t worthy of you, poppet. Captain Lestrade doesn’t deserve to kiss the ground you walk on.”

Captain Lestrade sucked my cock earlier. Mycroft felt a hysterical giggle bubble up in his chest and ruthlessly suppressed it.

“He is not the _only_ one who notices you. There are other Alphas who notice you. Better than him. I want you to understand that tonight, so you can forget all about what happened and look to the future, and realize that you shouldn’t waste your time with someone who is so unworthy. The Duke of Lennox has been asking about you.”

“Ma’am?”

“He’s John’s uncle. He arrived with the Scottish delegation this morning, but he won’t be staying with us long. He leaves at the end of the month, once the Royal Tour reaches the coast. That means that there’s absolutely _no harm_ in indulging his chaste attentions toward you. I confess, poppet, that I have encouraged him to seek you out tonight and he seemed very keen to spend time with you.”

Mycroft was confused. He couldn’t have heard his mother correctly. “You…you encouraged…”

“You have been denied too many pleasures in life. And that is my fault.” The Queen admitted, staring into Mycroft’s eyes with the weight of grief. “You and I both know why it’s had to be so, but you have not been happy. I know you haven’t. You’ve been denied so many little joys amd it’s why you’ve clung so tenaciously to the Captain, grasping at what little exhilaration you could. That will end.” She declared, drawing herself up and giving Mycroft’s hands a squeeze. “I want you to be happy, even if it is only in small amounts, little experiences here and there. Dance with Lennox tonight. Enjoy the attentions of an Alpha worthy of you. For one night. You can do that, can’t you, poppet?”

“Y-yes, ma’am…I-…but-“

“Your Majesty.”

The Duke of Lennox gave them both a deep, respectful bow and Mycroft eyed the Alpha he’d only seen once or twice. He was John’s uncle, younger than John’s mother and closer to thirty, still youthful and vibrant. Mycroft supposed he was handsome. He was tall, with black hair and bright eyes. Well-dressed. A smirk played around his thin lips that Mycroft didn’t like, and when the Duke’s gaze settled on him, Mycroft felt as if he were imagining him in his underthings.

Or naked, Mycroft revised as the Duke’s eyes lazily flicked down his body.

His mother made the introductions and there was nothing else Mycroft could do but extend his hand. Lennox took Mycroft’s hand and kissed the back of it, subtly scenting him as he did so even though he knew Mycroft was a Beta. Mycroft felt Lestrade move up behind him to be closer as this interloping Alpha touched him and, instead of feeling comforted, Mycroft was unnerved.

“We shall open the gala with Sherlock and John once everyone is assembled.” The Queen announced, beaming at Mycroft before she hurried off, leaving him with an Alpha he didn’t want to dance with- and an Alpha he would much rather be fucking.

Lennox squeezed Mycroft’s hand, drawing his attention. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but you are utterly stunning.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“You are exquisite. The most stunning Beta I have ever encountered. So slender. So fair of face. I was struck with your beauty from the moment I saw you at the ceremony this morning and I couldn’t stop staring at you all through dinner. I told your mother that my heart would be broken if I did not have the opportunity to dance with you tonight. She is a very benevolent woman to honor me in such a way.”

“I…” Mycroft tried to take his hand back, but the Duke tightened his grip. Mycroft thought it would be rude to jerk away. People were staring. “Forgive me, but my mother has allowed you to be mistaken. I never dance.”

“Then allow me to entice you to partake in an endeavor of which you are unlearned. Your inexperience will only make it all the sweeter, and I promise you that I am not a selfish partner. Our joining- in the dance- will be to _both_ our _pleasures_.”

Mycroft felt dirty. He tried to take his hand back again and Lennox’s tightened, grinding his bones together. He gave Mycroft a sly look.

“Your coyness is charming, Mycroft. I’ve heard of you, you know. Prince Mycroft. The Ice Prince of Northumbria. That’s what they call you. But that’s not how you truly are, is it? I see beneath all your layers, even if they are so tightly laced.” He teased.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You aren’t frigid, as everyone claims you are. Oh, no. For all that you are a Beta, I know what burns deep in your veins, just waiting to be stimulated _properly_. You strike me as a man who is not easily satisfied; however, I have never failed to rise to the occasion. I will do _everything_ in my power to make sure you are _fully_ pleased as we take our leisure together this evening.”

“Your Highness?” Gregory’s low voice, vibrating with anger, sent a chill down Mycroft’s spine. He knew what the Alpha was asking…but he couldn’t make a scene in the middle of the gala. Not when his mother had personally arranged this meeting. To make Mycroft happy.

They both knew Mycroft would have to dance with Lennox. Even if he was the worst sort of Alpha imaginable. Good lord, did John Watson not have any decent relatives?

Lennox’s eyes darted over Mycroft’s shoulder, his lip curling. “And who is this brute? Your nursemaid?”

“He is my Captain of the Guard.” Mycroft replied coldly. “His place is always beside me.”

“An admirable quality to be sure…but surely you do not expect to be attacked at your mother’s gala?” Lennox teased, and Mycroft felt a flash of irritation. Now that Lennox had pointed it out, it would look odd if he continued to keep the Captain near him the rest of the evening. There was no reason except his own personal inclination- and that wasn’t enough. It would be suspect. A Prince of Northumbria did not dance with their Captain of the Guard.

They weren’t supposed to fuck their Captain either.

“I am Alpha enough to keep you safe should anything unwanted occur. Although, I flatter myself, that will not be the case. You are not nursemaided as closely as your Omega brother, are you? It would be a terrible shame if so gorgeous a Beta as yourself were ignorant of the myriad pleasures to be had from the attentions of an Alpha…while dancing.” He finished smoothly. "I would be honored to teach such things to you, and be the reason your curiosity was _thoroughly_ satiated. Shall we?" 

Mycroft wanted his hand back. He did not want to be touched by this person. He wanted to be in his room, away from everyone, with Gregory doing pleasant things between his legs.

The musicians tuned their instruments, sending a loud chorus into the air, letting everyone know the dancing was about to commence. Across the room, the Queen beckoned Mycroft over. She was already waiting with their father, Sherlock and John stood side by side nearby, looking very awkward and avoiding eye contact.

There was nothing else he could do.

“Very well.” He conceded reluctantly, and half-glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t look at Gregory. Not now. “You are dismissed for the evening, Captain. Enjoy the night’s festivities as you will.”

There was a long, weighty silence. Mycroft felt a genuine thrill of panic that Gregory would disobey him-

“Yes, Your Highness.” He bit out, anger hot enough to scald. “I serve at your pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue after this, which I promise will include John and Sherlock actually talking to each other. It was meant to go in this chapter but the length got away from me.


	12. Epilogue, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Epilogue got away from me, so I've split it into 2 parts: John and Sherlock, then Greg and Mycroft. I should post the second part in another day or so.
> 
> This is John and Sherlock's Epilogue.

“You are more than welcome to train with the Palace Guard as often as you like, Prince John. We are the Queen’s personal protectors. A very elite force. The best of the best from the Army.”

“Thank you, General.” John hoped his voice didn’t sound as bored as he thought it did but it was bloody past midnight. He was fucking exhausted and didn’t want to stand around talking to the Queen’s boring, pompous, pain-in-the-arse Alpha General another minute. The man was so arrogant and dull, bragging about himself and his soldiers repetitively, which John thought had a lot to do with the copious quantities of wine the man had imbibed throughout the evening. Greely was red-faced, swaying slightly, and John hoped the Alpha passed out soon so he could escape the conversation. “I appreciate the invitation.”

“Indeed. I thought you might. You will be more at home there among us, among worthy, competent soldiers…instead of wasting your time by training with an Alpha who isn’t worthy of his position.” General Greely left it at that and turned away from John, looking out over the room where couples glided past them, sparkling and shimmering, as the music played on and on and on, the musicians showing no signs of tiring. His ploy was blatantly transparent. He was clearly waiting for John to be surprised and ask what the hell he’d meant.

John dearly wanted to disappoint him.

His eyes were dry, itching from tiredness, and his throat sore from talking. He was also _starving_. He’d barely eaten dinner, so distracted with the Queen’s questions and put off by the foreignness of the food, and his stomach rumbled, cramping with hunger. No one could hear it in the loud ballroom which was still full to the brim with people despite the lateness of the hour. Everyone was having a good time celebrating his betrothal to Sherlock.

Everyone except John.

After his dance with Sherlock (John keeping his hands lightly on Sherlock’s waist as they moved, feeling the little Omega’s hand shaking where it was clasped in his own, Sherlock’s face red and his eyes fixed on the floor), Queen Holmes had personally escorted John around the ballroom to introduce him to the rest of the Court. The last few hours had been an endless series of names and faces with lots of stuffy titles attached- of which John didn’t remember a sodding one. It’d all been so overwhelming.

But everyone was friendly. _Too_ friendly. Phony. Oozing charm. Bowing and smiling and complimenting John on his dance with Sherlock, his appearance, his renowned skill with a sword, his clothes, his demeanor. Offering him visits to their estates and hunting excursions in his honor. Riding parties and little events and get-togethers of which they would be so honored if John would attend.

If John believed everything that had been said about him that night, he’d think he was the most amazing, attractive Alpha in the whole godsdamn world. Which he knew wasn’t true. It was all so fake.

Fake. Fake. Fake.

John knew that. He wasn’t deceived by the smiling faces…but he could play along.

As Queen Holmes moved them around the room, flitting from group to group, he’d smiled and laughed, thanked and complimented, politely declined invitations and given vague acceptances. He’d been witty. Amiable. Charming. Polite. He had practice playing the role of the smiling fool in his father’s Court. The Court at Marseille was no different. John knew he’d done well. Queen Holmes had told him as much, telling him how proud she was of him and the effortless, kingly way he’d conducted himself. It was befitting of an Alpha as honorable as he was, she’d said, giving him an appraising look before taking her leave for the evening.

John thought he’d done well, but he wondered if Queen Holmes suspected that he was fake.

Fake. Fake. Fake.

It was too late to act in any other way. What was done was done and John was just fucking glad it was over. It’d been a long night.

So he seriously thought about disappointing General Greely and refusing to ask the man what he’d meant by his cryptic statement. John wondered how far he could draw their conversation out before Greely snapped and told him on his own.

John didn’t want to find out because he was sure it’d be _ages_.

“Are you possibly referring to Captain Lestrade, General?”

Greely turned back to John as if surprised by his query and John barely resisted rolling his eyes. Good lord. “Of course! Surely you’ve heard about the debacle which took place last year?” His astonishment was obviously feigned and John’s opinion of him lessened significantly.

But he would play along.

Fake. Fake. Fake.

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. What happened?”

Greely stepped closer, their shoulders brushing, and the strong smell of wine accosted John’s nostrils. He fought the urge to lean away. “Last year, Captain Lestrade was arrested by the Queen and temporarily removed from his position as Captain of the Prince’s Guard.”

John hadn’t expected to hear _that_ , but he kept his surprise to himself. He didn’t want to give Greely the satisfaction of having startled him.

“Captain Lestrade? Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes! Quite sure! I was there.”

“What was he arrested for?”

“Well. To truly understand the despicable depth of Captain Lestrade’s actions, you must know how well-thought of he was before he betrayed the Royal Family. Prince Mycroft relied on him and the Queen trusted him implicitly to safeguard her son even though he wasn’t worthy of his position- even then, in my opinion- but I’ve never disagreed with my Queen. I know what _true_ loyalty is.”

“Mm…”

“As it happened…” Greely took a deep gulp of wine, smacking his lips. “Captain Lestrade took a delegation of the Guard and escorted Prince Mycroft across the sea to Samaria, in a failed attempt to betroth the Crown Prince to their Alpha Princess. This was, of course, before Prince Mycroft decided you were by far the more estimable choice.” He bowed to John, almost toppling over and only John’s hand on his elbow prevented him from face-planting on the floor. “Oh! Steady on there, eh?”

“Uh. Yes. Yes…perhaps you may have had enough to drink, General?”

“Nonsense! Not at all! I’m an Alpha who can hold his alcohol! It’s not effected me at all, I can assure you. Now, where was I…Oh, yes. Everything went well, however on their return to Northumbria, the Captain was unforgivably lax concerning his duty to Prince Mycroft and allowed the Prince to become ill on the road. _Deathly ill._ He then made matters worse by trying to cover up his mistake, separating the Prince from the rest of his Guard and taking him to a _filthy_ inn on the edge of Belgravia Forest to try and nurse him back to health. All in attempt at subterfuge so no one would know of his mistake.” Greely shook his head, looking grim and taking another deep sip of his wine. “The Prince was too weak to protest, out of his head with fever, and helpless to his Captain’s cunning machinations.”

None of that measured up to John’s estimation of Captain Lestrade. He admittedly hadn’t spent much time with the Alpha, and he knew more than anyone that outward appearances could be deceiving, but Lestrade seemed honorable…and entirely devoted to Prince Mycroft. Protective almost to a fault, where Mycroft went, there also was Lestrade. He hovered behind the Prince, ready and willing and able to do whatever was necessary to protect him.

John frowned, disconcerted at the information, and Greely pounced.

“Of course, you heard what Queen Holmes said at dinner. About treachery in the ranks of the Prince’s Guard.”

“…I did.”

“Did you not think it was an odd thing for her to say?” Greely prodded and John reluctantly agreed. He had wondered where her vehemence over the issue had come from.

“She was referring to the Captain.” Greely stressed. “Lestrade could have killed Prince Mycroft with his incompetence. Queen Holmes discovered what was happening to her precious son- there are spies everywhere, you know.” He revealed, tapping his nose and giving John a wink, rather proving John’s point that he’d had too much to drink. “She immediately went, under heavy guard, to rescue her son from the dirty hovel where he was imprisoned. Lestrade was arrested and Queen Holmes took her son back to the palace where he could be cared for properly, with actual physicians and medicines. I was there when Prince Mycroft was rescued.” He shook his head, sighing. “It was terrible, Prince John. He was ill. Very ill. It was distressing to see him in such a way. Shaking and trembling all over. White as a sheet. Prince Mycroft was barely aware of where he was when Queen Holmes took him upstairs after we arrived back at the palace. She didn’t want anyone to see him in the state he was in, but I caught a glimpse before she whisked him upstairs. The Queen is a doting mother but of course you’ve seen evidence of that for yourself.”

John grunted noncommittally. He didn't want to start an argument in the middle of the ball with the General.

“She was wrath over what happened to her son- what Captain Lestrade _allowed_ to happen with his shoddy watchfulness. She immediately removed him from his position, as was right, and confined to his rooms in the barracks to await judgment. I pressed her to charge him with attempted murder and execute him immediately- he was a traitor to the Crown. Anyone could see that. But she felt that such swift action was too harsh and wanted to delay his punishment and wait for her son to get better so she could hear what he had to say concerning what happened. After all, Lestrade could have taken advantage of the Prince.” Greely added darkly. “In his weakened state? I wouldn’t put it past Lestrade. Prince Mycroft wasn’t much to look at when he was younger, but now…well, even you must admit that he is beautiful- and trailing titles to boot.”

“Um…”

“Yes, yes. Any Alpha worth their knot would enjoy bedding Prince Mycroft…even if he is a Beta. Unfortunate that…but if Lestrade saw his opportunity, I doubt he would have resisted the temptation- especially if he believed the Prince wouldn’t remember what took place because of his fever.”

John didn’t respond. Whatever else Greely thought of Lestrade, John _refused_ to believe that Lestrade would have raped Mycroft. There were many things he could perhaps believe, but that was _not_ one of them.

“And then...I’ll never understand it. The strangest thing…Prince Mycroft recovered from his sickness, rose from his very deathbed, and fought with his mother against the Captain’s removal and arrest.”

John’s eyes flicked across the room to where the Prince in question was standing with his uncle, the Duke of Lennox. John had noticed more than once how close the Prince and his Captain were. Mycroft barely had to give direction for Lestrade to know what needed to be done, and he relied on the Alpha. It made sense that Mycroft had argued in Lestrade’s favor. The man was loyal, admirably so.

And in John’s opinion, even if Prince Mycroft _had_ been so very sick, it seemed extreme to arrest Lestrade and hold him responsible for that. People got sick, even Princes. It was unavoidable. After traveling so far, across the sea and back again, Mycroft himself could have been at fault for falling ill.

“Their arguments were more battles than conversations and for days they clashed, neither refusing to give even an inch. Those were tense times in the palace. No one wanted to speak above a whisper for fear of setting one or the other off…But it worked. Prince Mycroft somehow prevailed over his mother, Captain Lestrade was released, reinstated to his post, and now he strides through the hallways, bold as brass. As if he’s not aware of how unworthy he is of the position of Captain of the Prince’s Guard.” Greely finished bitterly, downing the rest of his wine. “If you want my advice, you’ll want to do something about him, Prince John.”

John didn’t want Greely’s advice.

“The Prince’s Guard is not mine to control, General.”

“Not as of yet.” Greely corrected smoothly. “But it will be. Eventually. Eventually, everything in this kingdom will fall under your control, Prince John.”

“That may be, but I have no plans to interfere with Prince Mycroft’s Guard.”

“Indeed? Well. It’s still something to consider when the time comes. I wanted to inform you of how the field of battle is laid out, so you are aware and can therefore be on the watch for egregious behavior from Captain Lestrade. I would encourage you to tell Queen Holmes of any worries you may have. I’m not sure what nefarious hold Lestrade has over Prince Mycroft, but it must be something terrible…”

What a load of shit, John thought. Greely had clearly had too much to drink and John stared longingly at the double doors in the far corner of the room. The doors to his freedom. They were so far away.

“I worry so much for Prince Mycroft.” Greely slurred.

Would Greely in his drunken stupor even notice if John made a break for the doors?

“You do?”

“Yes. I’ve known him since he was a young child, and have been blessed by the gods to see him mature into a very handsome, intelligent young man…for all that he is a Beta. Unfortunate that.” He pointed out again, grimacing, and tried to take another sip of wine before realizing his cup was empty. “Queen Holmes believes Mycroft will remain unmarried and in fairness to her, he has never shown an interest in anyone in the whole Court, and there has never been a reason to seek out a suitable match for him. He’s a Beta, after all- what a waste of beauty! Think of it. Mycroft Holmes, a Beta.” He heaved a sigh. “However…well. I don’t expect him to remain unmarried the rest of his life.”

He winked at John who suddenly felt ill. He did not want to think of Mycroft and Greely and sex. He did not. Greely chortled when he saw John’s shock.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, Prince John! Once an Alpha such as myself gets old, they want a life of leisure and settling down with a pretty young thing. Spend the rest of their days in as _enjoyable_ a way as possible. And with a Beta there’s no worry of pregnancy.” He elbowed John, giving him a knowing smile and offering him to share in the joke.

John didn’t think it was funny.

“You and the Prince?”

Greely shrugged and attempted to look modest. He didn’t succeed. “I flatter myself that, should I make the request, my suit would not be rejected. I’ve served Queen Holmes all my life and I’ve proven my worthiness and honor time and again. Prince Mycroft himself thinks very highly of me. You saw how the Queen positioned us tonight at dinner.” He winked again. “In times past, Captain Lestrade was seated beside the Prince, but since I began dropping hints as to my true intentions toward her son, Queen Holmes moved me closer to the object of my desire. She’s a doting mother as I said. She wants her son happy, even if he is a Beta.”

John hadn’t seen any particular partiality. Mycroft had ignored Greely just as steadily as he’d ignored everyone else at the table. That may not matter, though. John knew it was common to marry a lesser Prince to a higher-ranking member of the Court to solidify alliances or garner loyalty. The General of the Queen’s Army was an eyebrow raising choice, though. John wouldn’t have wanted it done: it put Greely in a prime position to fight for the throne, granting him undue rank.

But John was sure Queen Holmes knew what she was doing.

“Excuse me, Prince John.” Greely gave a shaky bow. “I must take my leave. I’m afraid my glass is empty- bloody servants. Probably off gallivanting, shirking their duties.”

Sweet relief.

“Of course. Please, take your leave. And thank you, General. Your conversation was…informative.”

“I’m happy to serve.” Greely gave another bow- John hoped he didn’t topple over- and then staggered away to find more wine.

“Bet you are, you fucking bastard.” John muttered when he was gone, glad to be able to take a breath that wasn’t laden with wine.

Then he realized.

For the first time in over five hours, no one was trying to talk to him or catch his eye and draw him into a conversation. No one was queued up behind the General, waiting their turn to meet the new Alpha Prince. He was alone.

Oh thank the gods.

Heart leaping with joy, John didn’t stop to think or even adequately plan his escape. He quickly slipped through the crowd, eyes averted to avoid eye contact so he wouldn’t be drawn into a conversation. He kept walking…walking…walking…walking….

This wouldn’t work. Every second, John expected to hear his name called. A touch to his shoulder. Someone to step in front of him and cut off his escape.

Walking…walking…walking…

No one stopped him.

As soon as John gained the deserted hallway outside the ballroom and was no longer in view of the room, he took to his heels. Not stopping to look back to see if he’d been missed or if anyone were following him, he pounded down the corridor, dashing past portraits and elaborate tapestries, his boots loud on the flagstones. His eyes were fixed on the far corner at the end of the corridor, and as soon as John reached it, he flung himself around the corner, immediately pressing his back against the stone wall as if he were hiding from pursuers.

There was a stitch in his side. He panted for breath. The distant strains of music were as chilling as cannon fire, the muted roar of voices and laughter ominous like a thunderstorm in the distance. That was all done with, though. At least for the night.

John closed his eyes, and let himself finally- for the first time all evening- relax. He probably should feel bad that he’d left his and Sherlock’s betrothal celebration early, John thought with a twinge of guilt, but he was just so fucking pleased to be out of the press of bodies that he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He was so caught up enjoying his freedom, the relative peace of solitude, that he didn’t see the small shadow flitting closer down the corridor. He was only aware that he was no longer alone when a high voice asked-

“What are you doing?”

* * *

 

It was past midnight before Sherlock noticed that John was gone from the ballroom.

At the realization, he perked up, raising his head. His sudden interest had more to do with the fact that he was bored than anything else because he’d been alone all evening, left to entertain himself while everyone else had fun.

Everyone was dancing, and Sherlock liked dancing…but he wasn’t allowed to dance with anyone- any Alpha- unless it was with John. John hadn’t asked him to dance, though. Not after their first dance to open the ball. Afterwards, Mummy had spent the rest of the evening leading John around the room, introducing him to everyone. John hadn’t had a free moment to spare.

Sherlock tried not to be disappointed.

He didn’t want to dance with John anyway, he reminded himself. His and John’s first dance had been profoundly uncomfortable. Standing so close together, holding John’s hand, and with everyone staring at them. John’s hand resting demurely on his waist while he steered them to the tune of the music and Sherlock’s face so red and hot he’d been afraid he’d pass out. He’d refused to pass out, clenching his jaw and staring fixedly at John’s shoulder to keep his eyes focused. Every breath he’d taken was laced with the obvious scent of Alpha. Sherlock had been relieved when their dance was over. He _never_ wanted to endure that sort of torture again.

That’s what he kept telling himself all evening as he stood to the side of the ballroom, wandering aimlessly around, sneaking snacks and just…watching. Being bored. He watched couples sneak into the dark garden outside, Omegas flirt and Alphas try and impress them. He managed to sneak a glass of champagne- which he’d never been able to do before- because Mycroft was distracted by the Duke of Lennox. It was bubbly and pleasant and made his head spin for a few hours. It’d certainly made the ball more interesting.

But his time alone gave Sherlock lots of opportunities to observe, and to overhear conversations he wasn’t meant to, and he’d concluded that everyone _loved_ John Watson.

What wasn’t to love?

John was easy and friendly. Sociable and gracious and kind. He could tell a joke or an anecdote and set whatever group he was in to laughing. He could handily give a compliment and actually make it seem sincere. His posture was straight as he calmly followed mummy from one group to the other, letting himself be introduced with a polite bow and a ready smile. Watching him, Sherlock had almost been fooled, because gone was the nervous John he’d met at the betrothal ceremony. That evening, John seemed entirely in his element, perfectly at ease. Sherlock couldn’t tell that he was nervous…except for his hands.

John had a nervous tremor in his hand. It was evident whenever he conversed with a group of people. He laughed and smiled and chatted, and all the while his hand repetitively clenched and unclenched and tremored at his side.

Sherlock watched him the whole evening. John was fascinating.

And Sherlock wasn’t the only person who thought so. All evening, he’d watched the Omegas of the Court flirt with John, both male and female, single and married, bonded and unbonded. It had been revolting. Sherlock was disgusted. The Omega’s pressed themselves against John because the room was too crowded and there was _literally_ _nowhere_ else for them to stand in the _enormous_ ballroom. They used any excuse to touch him. Clutching at his arm while they laughed and simpered. Touching his shoulder because they had tripped. Brushing at his hair where it fell over his forehead, teasing him that the rakish look was handsome these days. They offered John their hands and giggled and blushed when he kissed the back of it.

John always smiled back, good-natured, and Sherlock hadn’t been able to tell what was said, but he heard the gushing praises of John from the Omegas as he passed by, describing how handsome and dashing he was. That he was such a skillful flirt! That he’d supposedly lingered longer than was proper over so-and-so’s hand. Comparing stories. Wondering if he would take a lover. Describing his hands and ears and then debating over the size of his-

Sherlock hadn’t let anyone know it bothered him. He remained cool, aloof, and above such petty things. He kept his face impassive, thinking of how expertly Mycroft hid his emotions while in public and doing his best to replicate his older brother. Now was as good a time as any to practice…because watching Omegas flirt with John _had_ bothered Sherlock.

_A lot._

Already, Sherlock felt possessive of John. John was his. He was meant for _him_ \- not other Omegas. They’d been betrothed that morning, united in front of the gods and the entire Court, and the Omegas knew to whom John belonged. It didn’t matter to them, though. John was affable and seemingly available (his total lack of attention to Sherlock that evening noticed by everyone), returning the friendly smiles and looks and increasing everyone’s suspicion that he would take a lover.

Soon.

That thought bothered Sherlock as well. He wondered if John really would take a lover, or if he’d be faithful to their betrothal vows. Most nobles, even after they were married and bonded, weren’t faithful to their spouse. Sherlock only had to look around the Court to see plenty of examples of infidelities. In the crowded ballroom, there were over sixty such examples- and by the end of the night, he’d ascertained, there would be twenty more. How could he expect John- when Sherlock was too young for a romantic relationship, and when they were neither married or bonded- to be faithful?

Even Mycroft expected John to take a lover. He’d awkwardly cautioned Sherlock a few nights ago, stammering and red-faced, not to expect fidelity from John.

“I’m not saying he shouldn’t…because he should. Obviously. However…it’s…it’s very unlikely when one considers the circumstances of the betrothal. Your age…John’s previous…involvements…and then there’s deferred date of the marriage.”

Sherlock had watched Mycroft fidgeting with the books on his bedside table, stacking and restacking them to avoid his eyes. He hoped Mycroft would say what he needed to say and then leave. This conversation was uncomfortable for both of them.

“It’s. Well. I think that’s simply the way of Alpha’s. They’re not…romantic in that way. I suppose. They’re usually only concerned about…Well. Regardless, Sherlock. I wanted you to know what to possibly expect. I didn’t want you to have…idealistic notions and then have those trod on when……It’s unlikely that John will…that is to say…”

Mycroft hadn’t wanted Sherlock to be disappointed and Sherlock was grateful to his brother for trying to soften the sting.

Still, as he made his way out of the crowded ballroom and down the corridor, intent on going to bed now that John had disappeared, Sherlock hoped John wasn’t off somewhere bedding one of the Omegas he’d met earlier that evening. If he _were_ going to engage in infidelity, Sherlock held out hope that John would at least wait a few weeks. To begin sleeping with someone the very day he’d been introduced and betrothed to Sherlock felt…cruel.

He sighed, unhappy, turning the corner at the far end-

And stopped dead.

John stood further down the corridor, pressed against the wall, his head tilted back, showing the pale line of his throat. His eyes were closed and he took deep, steady breaths, hands fisted at his sides. The sight of John was so unexpected that Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

“What are you doing?”

John gave a choked gasp, startling wildly, jerking away from the wall and eyes flying open in alarm. When he saw Sherlock, he looked chagrined, face draining of color- before rallying.

“Sherlock.” He bowed. Not nearly as poised as he earlier, Sherlock noted. John’s hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides again. “Where…I was just. I…what are you…”

Sherlock regarded John carefully while he continued to stammer. “Are you…all right?”

He expected for John to say that he was fine. To puff out his chest and bluster his way out of the situation, declare he was perfectly at ease and that he’d only needed some air after the stifling heat of the ballroom. He expected John to assert that he was just returning to the hall, actually. when Sherlock found him…

It certainly crossed John’s mind to do that. Sherlock saw the idea flit across his face, and John drew his shoulders up and back, opened his mouth…but then, John slumped, all the fight going out of him in a rush, and he gave Sherlock a weak smile.

“I was hiding.” He quietly confessed. “Marseille is...overwhelming.” He chuckled uncomfortably, glancing back the way he’d come. “It was all…just a bit too much.”

Sherlock liked John when he was like this, open and friendly. “I can understand it would feel overwhelming. I believe Mummy introduced you to everyone in the Court this evening.”

“Felt that way, yeah.” John eyed Sherlock, suddenly suspicious. “What are you doing out here? Surely you’re not running away too?”

“No, I’m not running away. I was just bored. Not much fun staying at a ball when there’s nothing to do.”

“Nothing to do?” John asked incredulously. “I thought there was too much to do actually. Seemed like a circus. I was surprised your mother hadn’t hired a few jugglers. But don’t you like dancing?”

“Yes, I like dancing.” Sherlock said as neutrally as he could. He didn’t want to sound childish or like he was upbraiding John for neglecting him, or that he was trying to make John feel guilty. They’d only just met. He didn’t want John thinking he was petty.

“Then why didn’t you dance? Surely you could have found a partner easily.”

“I…I probably could have, I suppose. But. I…wasn’t allowed to.”

“What? I don’t understand…why weren’t you allowed to?”

“Didn’t…didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Had John really not known? Had his complete disregard for Sherlock been from ignorance instead of a wilful act? Brief hope flared in Sherlock's chest. “I’m not allowed to dance with anyone. I can’t dance at all unless it’s…with you.”

John looked stricken. “ _Wh-what_?”

“They…no one told you?”

“N-no. No one told me.” John snapped. “And you’re…you’re serious?”

“I’m the Omega Crown Prince.” Sherlock explained reluctantly. “I’m not allowed to dance with an Alpha at parties or balls. I never have been. Now that I’m betrothed, I’m allowed but…it has to be with-“

“With me.” John finished faintly, staring at Sherlock as if he’d never seen him properly before. “Don’t…don’t you ever get to dance?”

“Father dances with me sometimes. And Mycroft, when he’s in a good mood and there aren’t a lot of people to see. He always gets embarrassed, dancing in public. But tonight, father was busy, and Mycroft was with the Duke of Lennox, and Mummy was introducing you to everyone, so…”

“You mean…you…all night you…” John stuttered to a halt, looking so upset. “Sherlock. I’m so sorry. No one told me that was a rule.”

John hadn’t known. The knowledge made Sherlock feel so much better. He didn’t think John was lying. He looked genuinely upset. Besides, John was apologizing and it reminded Sherlock of his apology during dinner and the good feelings inside him multiplied.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, John.”

“Yes, there is. I would’ve danced with you if I’d known…I saw you standing around during the night but I thought you just didn’t feel like joining in, not that you weren’t allowed…”

Sherlock didn’t want John feeling bad. “It doesn’t matter-”

“It does! I didn’t-“

“Are you really going to teach me how to sword fight?”

John drew up short at the abrupt topic change. “Do you want to learn how to sword fight?” He countered, and Sherlock frowned, bewildered.

“Do I have a choice?”

“ _Yes_ , Sherlock. You do have a choice.” John looked miserable- even more than earlier- and Sherlock wished he’d kept his stupid mouth shut. He wanted their little time spent alone together to be pleasant. He was ruining it. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. I know about the Alpha Patronage and…and what your mother expects…but I won’t make you learn to fight if you’d really rather not. I won’t…I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” John hesitated, then, “Ever.”

It was a sweet promise. Very sincerely given.

They both knew John was lying.

Not on purpose, Sherlock thought, giving John another small smile, entranced (and confused) when John blushed in response. It was only the nature of their relationship and what their future held that would eventually make John a liar. Sherlock appreciated the gesture all the same.

“No…I think I’d like to learn how to sword fight.” Which wasn’t a lie. Sherlock thought it would be a unique skill. He’d watched Lestrade and the Guard training, and the complicated combat moves looked exciting. “Mummy wasn’t lying at dinner, though. I really haven’t ever held a weapon before. Not even a dagger.”

“Another rule, huh?”

“Another rule, yes. I’ll be terrible at it.” He warned John.

“Of course you’re going to be terrible.” John hurriedly continued before Sherlock could get properly angry. “But that’s just because you’ve never done it before. Everyone’s terrible when they first start doing something new. But it’s all right. I’ll show you how.”

Sherlock beamed, happier at that moment than he’d been all day. He liked being the focus of John’s attention and courtesy. John was friendly and Sherlock enjoyed having that friendliness directed at him instead of other Omegas.

John gave him a wary look. “What?”

“You aren’t at all what I expected.” Sherlock admitted, and John cocked his head to the side.

“What were you expecting?”

A typical Alpha. A swaggering bully. Inherent danger. A person who would make him feel small and stupid. Someone he’d have to watch himself around. Unpleasantness. Dread. Fear. But Sherlock didn’t want to say all of that and perhaps offend John.

“Not you.” He finally said, and John snorted, grinning incredulously.

“Well. You weren’t what I was expecting either.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Not you. _Definitely_ not you.”

Sherlock wondered if that were a bad thing. He was too shy to ask. He hoped it wasn’t.

He regarded the Alpha standing in front of him. John was still edgy. Obviously uneasy. He nervously licked his lips, hands clenching and unclenching. Avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. He looked ready to bolt. Sherlock bit his lip, thinking hard. He didn’t know how to put anxious Alphas at ease.

But then he thought of the stray cats which gathered around the stables to catch mice. They were leans things, dodgy, mistrustful, and suspicious of anyone and anything. A few years ago, Sherlock had attempted to befriend them and gotten scratched for his efforts. He remembered crying, not because the scratches had hurt, but because he didn’t understand why the animals didn’t like him. He’d tried so hard to be nice to them.

Captain Lestrade had found him curled in a stall crying his heart out. He’d calmed Sherlock down, cleaned up his scratches, and taught him how to gently coax the stray cats to him: patience and food.

“Would you like something to eat?” 

“We’ve already had dinner.”

“Yes…but you didn’t eat very much.” Sherlock said pertly, and one side of John’s mouth curved up in a reluctant smile.

“No, I guess I didn’t…but…between me and you, I’d rather not go back to the ballroom.”

“We won’t have to go back to the ballroom.” Sherlock assured him. Patiently. “We can get some food and…eat right here. If you’d like.”

John hesitated, clearly gauging Sherlock’s level of sincerity and wondering if he were taking the piss, and Sherlock saw the exact moment he decided to trust him. “Alright. What exactly did you have in mind, Sherlock?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Queen _does not_ know about Greely's intentions towards Mycroft. Mycroft suspects, but doesn't think the General is serious.  
>  Mycroft cannot be in a relationship with someone/get married without exposing himself as an Omega. It cannot happen.
> 
> 2\. The other day, an anon asked on Tumblr: "All these Alphas wanting Mycroft??" And yes. Mycroft is a literal prince. He's rich. Most Alphas would want him, or at least pretend to want him.


	13. Epilogue, part 2 (final)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note**  
> There is a scene of sexual harassment between Mycroft and another character. It's a mild form, I suppose, but I don't want it to be triggering or make anyone uncomfortable, so please just be aware.

The ballroom was overcrowded. Hot. The glass doors on either side of the room had been thrown wide, opened to the garden and allowing cool night air, scented with flowers and smoke, to filter inside. But with hundreds of candles burning brightly and the vigorous movement of hundreds of people all shoved together, the fresh air didn’t penetrate very far into the room. Large groups of guests clustered around the exits to cool off, fanning red faces and laughing and flirting and drinking, unconcerned about the heat or discomfort when there were so many pleasures to be had.

As the night wore on, more and more wine was consumed. Laughter grew louder. Voices rose. The formal dances were still performed, however there was a comical gaudiness to the movements of the dancers. Haphazard spins. Elaborately done steps which made the participants laugh as they tripped through them, occasionally almost bringing down a friend with them- which set off loud peals of laughter. All around the room, the candelabras were covered in dripping layers of wax accumulated as the candles melted down. They were replaced and relit by the servants in a never-ending cycle.

Couples stealthily snuck out the open doors and disappeared into the dark garden, returning half an hour later sweaty, flushed, their clothing disheveled and hair mussed. Stern-faced guardians knew what was going on and watched their Omega charges closely, beady eyes trained on them as they danced. But as soon as their backs were turned, the Omega’s Alpha partner grabbed up their hand and, giggling like naughty children, the pair made a (discreet) break for freedom. And fornication.

More than once as they danced, Lennox attempted to steer Mycroft toward the open doors.

The room was too hot, he said solicitously. Wouldn’t Mycroft prefer some fresh air? Really, Mycroft looked very flushed. It would not do for him to allow the Prince to faint from the heat. He must insist that Mycroft accompany him outside to cool off. Mycroft may not be aware of it, Lennox teased, but there were infinite pleasures to be had if they took a small turn about the garden together- they would stay in sight of the ballroom the entire time, he promised- and he could guarantee that they would then come back to the dance afterwards fully refreshed.

Mycroft coldly declined.

“You’re too cruel, Mycroft.” Lennox sighed, casting a disappointed look at the open doors as he and Mycroft rested. “My heart is breaking from your disinterest. I am in agony.”

“Perhaps you should retire then, if you are feeling unwell.”

“You’re charming, dear heart, but you’ve entirely misunderstood my meaning. I would do nothing which would take me away from your presence, even if I were mortally wounded, here I would remain even though it's sweet torture to be thusly allowed near you and yet held at such a distance.”

“The distance is not as great as you claim it is, though I wish it were otherwise.”

“Mycroft.” The Duke chided, laughing. “You cannot deny the pleasures I have given you this evening. But it's no matter. I confess that I’m actually no longer surprised that you’ve refused my overtures tonight.”

“I wonder then why you persist in wasting your time pursuing such an unsuccessful path.”

He knew he was being rude, but Mycroft was too hot to be polite. The room was stifling, and fresh air sounded like heaven, but Mycroft would rather die than enter the moonlit gardens and be kissed and pawed at by Lennox. They were both sweaty from dancing. Mycroft could feel perspiration slicking his back and dripping down his face. The rest of his body felt uncomfortably moist. He hoped the wax patches covering his scent glands weren’t deteriorating from the heat. He would need to leave soon and check, and had already resolved not to return to the ballroom.

“I continue because I know the _true_ reason for your rejection.” Lennox gave Mycroft a secretive smile. “You, dear heart, are untouched.”

“You overstep yourself, Your Grace.” Mycroft snapped. He was sick of Lennox. He was tired of deciphering the perverted connotations which the Alpha managed to inject into literally every sentence he uttered. After spending hours in his company, Mycroft had decided there wasn’t one redeemable quality about the man and he wondered what the hell his mother had been thinking placing him in Lennox’s path.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you, but my suspicion is correct, is it not?” He gently pressed. “You are untouched. I confess that isn’t what I expected to discover when I asked permission to spend the evening with you-”

“I am sorry to disappoint you.” Mycroft let all of the irritation he felt creep into his voice. “When arranging this evening with my mother, I understand you desired a partner with whom you could easily partake of all the various _pleasures_ to be had. Unfortunately, that isn't me. The night is still young, though, and I therefore release you from whatever delusions of misplaced duty you are laboring under by remaining at my side. I hope you now have a more fortuitous evening.” Mycroft gave a short bow, and made to move away, but Lennox darted forward and grabbed his arm, refusing to let him leave.

“No, no. You misunderstand me, dear heart. I’ve no wish to be dismissed from your presence. Quite the contrary.”

“Let go of me.”

“When I first met you,” Lennox continued, ignoring Mycroft, “I thought you were so self-possessed. Poised. I thought that your standoffishness sprang from a need to be properly wooed. It was clear to me that no one had ever done such a thing. No one has ever been worthy of you. Your standards are very high…and I looked forward to not only meeting those standards, but surpassing them, and winning you for myself.”

“I am not a prize for you to win, as if you were playing a game at a street fair.”

“But that is exactly what you are to me, Mycroft- oh, not some bobble or trinket to be tossed aside, but a prize beyond compare. Because I found that beneath your poised veneer lurks the fragility and innocence one usually only finds in Omegas. To find that you possess the delicate virtuousness which is so rare these days, and that it has yet to be corrupted…” Lennox hummed, letting his eyes close as if savoring some treat and Mycroft suppressed a shudder.

“If you do not release me, Your Grace-“

“What I mistook for your coyness- which Omegas and some Betas are known to falsely employ to increase an Alpha’s interest- is instead a natural shyness which demonstrates your lack of experience as clearly as the ringing of a bell.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Mycroft discreetly twisted his wrist to break Lennox’s hold, not wanting to draw attention by using more force. The effort was wasted.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know what I mean, dear heart.” Lennox gave Mycroft what would have been a caring look had it not been tinged with a disturbing darkness. His fingers brushed along Mycroft’s cheek-

Mycroft jerked away. He didn’t want this man touching him. And something horrible settled in the pit of his stomach- awareness in the face of a potential threat- when, instead of being abashed, the Duke looked hungrier.

Mycroft resisted the almost overwhelming urge to look for Gregory.

His fear, the dry-mouthed, heart-pounding fear, was ridiculous. He and Lennox were in a roomful of people. The Duke, for all that he was a depraved Alpha, wouldn’t be brazen enough to molest Mycroft in front of the entire Court- and the Queen. Lennox was debauched, but he wasn’t stupid.

Besides, it was useless to search for his Captain. Mycroft had been furtively scanning the crowd all evening as he danced with Lennox, searching the faces that whirled past, looking for the Alpha. All to no avail.

Gregory was gone.

While disappointed, Mycroft didn’t blame him.

Not only had he coldly dismissed Gregory earlier, not even deigning to look at him while he did, but Mycroft knew he’d angered his Captain by choosing to dance with Lennox. Mycroft didn’t know what else he could have done, though. His mother had wanted him to spend time with Lennox, pleased because she thought she was gifting Mycroft an enjoyable evening at the ball with a handsome Alpha. It was something Mycroft had genuinely never experienced before because he was never approached, or paid any attention to, at events like this, and he certainly never danced with Alphas. He faded to the background which was where Mycroft preferred to be…but his mother wanted to gift him little pieces of happiness when she could, striving to make her son as happy possible. Mycroft hadn’t wanted to refuse her. His hands had been tied. Gregory should have known that-

Lennox crowded into his personal space. Mycroft’s stomach clenched with unease. He didn’t want Lennox any closer than he already was. He was afraid of what he may do- despite the hundreds of people surrounding them. He resolutely held his ground, not wanting to give the Alpha the satisfaction of having unnerved him.

Gregory knew there was nothing else Mycroft could’ve done, and there was nothing Gregory himself could have done either. Not only was it none of his business who Mycroft chose to associate with, but Gregory, angered on Mycroft’s behalf, wouldn’t have been able to challenge Lennox in the middle of a crowded ballroom for the crass, insulting way he’d spoken to Mycroft. Not without causing a scene. Revealing more than any of them wanted. There was nothing either of them could have done.

Mycroft had told Gregory he could leave.

Gregory had left.

“Your modesty is _enticing_.” Lennox breathed in his ear, and this time Mycroft was unable to suppress his disgusted shudder. Lennox, mistaking it for a positive reaction, moved even closer and Mycroft could feel the heat of his body, smell the pomade with which he’d used to fix his hair, the whiff of wine he’d had with dinner.

“Let me go.”

“It arouses me to witness your staunch reserve, Mycroft. You have no idea. Because the best prizes, dear heart, are always those which are hardest won, and I look forward to intimately watching that reserve crumble beneath my…attentions…”

Mycroft didn’t want to think of the scenario Lennox was proposing. He didn’t want to think of anything he did _arousing_ Lennox. He could smell him. Alpha. Sharp and earthy with desire. Sweat. Bitter musk. His hand was still gripping Mycroft’s arm while he breathed in his ear. Mycroft thought he would be sick.

He wished Gregory hadn’t left. Just so Mycroft would know that he was there somewhere in the same room and that, should he need him, Gregory would come.

But Gregory wasn’t there. He was gone. Mycroft and Lennox were surrounded by hundreds of people and Mycroft didn’t know how to get himself out of this situation diplomatically. He’d never experienced the predatory interest of an Alpha who didn’t listen to his repeated rejections, who instead became aroused the more and more Mycroft rejected him. It made Mycroft feel as if he were not in control of the situation. Turned his stomach. Scared him and…made him feel incredibly _alone_.

* * *

 

The guilt gnawing in Greg’s gut made him feel like a degenerate, as if he were doing something wrong. Skulking around like a common criminal. He ignored the feeling and stayed where he was. He refused to leave.

Stood outside one of the open doors which led into the garden, and hidden by the shadows, Greg watched Mycroft and Lennox as they talked. They were too far away for Greg to know what was being said, but Lennox’s hand rested on Mycroft’s arm, their heads bent together in an intimate fashion, eyes locked, as if they weren’t aware of anyone else in the whole godsdamn room.

Greg growled. He forced himself to look away and concentrate on something else. He was being irrational.

Once Mycroft dismissed him, Greg hadn’t even thought about leaving. He’d prowled the outer expanse of the ballroom for a while to find the best place from which to watch Mycroft unobserved, and then taken up his position. He hadn’t moved from it all night. It would be a cold day in hell before Greg left Mycroft alone with the Duke of sodding Lennox. He didn’t care if there were hundreds of people around and so Mycroft and Lennox weren’t exactly alone. No one else in the room mattered. Greg trusted no one except himself to keep Mycroft safe.

That was what he’d told himself as he took up his position, ready to rescue Mycroft from Lennox’s clutches…if it was needed.

But now, hours later, Greg felt like a fool because nothing had happened. None of the horrible things he’d envisioned taking place had occurred- which he was happy for, of course- but his vigilance had been a waste of time and Greg realized what he should have earlier: the Duke may be crude and vulgar, but he wouldn’t actually molest Mycroft in a crowded ballroom. The Queen herself was there. It’d been stupid of Greg to think that he would.

Greg slumped against the stone wall. He should’ve left when Mycroft told him to. The last few hours had been excruciating for so many different reasons.

The things Lennox insinuated earlier had made Greg want to kill him and it’d been agony not to step forward, block Lennox’s view of Mycroft because the man wasn’t worthy to even _look_ at Mycroft- draw his sword, and run the bastard through. Failing that, Greg would’ve been pleased punching the Alpha in his smug face as recompense for his disrespect to the Prince. None of that had been allowed. Greg had to silently stand by and listen as Lennox spoke to Mycroft so rudely, taking advantage of the fact that Mycroft was a Royal Beta (Omega, Greg automatically corrected in his head) and was therefore likely to be ignorant about the things the Duke was suggesting.

It was the way most high-born Omegas (and Betas) were raised: kept deliberately ignorant about what sharing heats and sex in general were like. Betas didn’t have it as bad, but Omegas were told just enough to be able to satiate their heats themselves- but only when the time came and not a moment sooner. Greg had heard lots of stories of high-born Omegas who had their first heat and became hysterical. No one had told them what to expect beforehand and they thought they were dying, not understanding what was wrong or what to do to help themselves. It wasn’t right…but the purity of an Omega for their Alpha had to be preserved, Greg thought sarcastically, eyes narrowing as Lennox laughed at something Mycroft said. The idea was that if Omegas were told what their body was capable of before it was time, they’d become sexually promiscuous and start spreading their legs for every available Alpha and experimenting. Giving Omegas that sort of knowledge was dangerous, and among the elite, it was kept from them at all costs- and the costs were usually the happiness and future pleasure of the Omega.

Greg thought it was disgusting.

High-born Omegas were usually told nothing before their wedding. Their Alpha was expected to teach them about sex once they married, in whatever way the Alpha pleased, but the shock of being so suddenly knotted and bitten and used was frightening and the Omegas were oftentimes too distressed to ever really enjoy anything that happened afterwards. High-born Omegas were notoriously hard to bed, frigid, and reserved. Passionless…except when they were in heat, and even those were dreaded because they knew what to expect from their Alpha: disregard to their comfort and an utter lack of concern. Not all Alphas were like that, of course, but Greg had heard enough nobles complaining about their Omega’s disinterest in sex outside of heats, using that as an excuse to keep a lover hidden away to satisfy themselves with in between times, to think it was a large majority. Of course, if they had just treated their own Omega better from the off, instead of acting like some sort of privileged godsdamn animal…

As Mycroft responded to Lennox, saying something which caused the Alpha to widely grin and move closer, his hand still resting on Mycroft’s arm (too close, get the fuck away from him, you don’t deserve to touch him, you bastard), Greg idly wondered what the Queen had told Mycroft about sex.

Because Mycroft masqueraded as a Beta and he enjoyed all the freedoms and privileges of that gender. He’d been given a staggering array of tutors growing up, taught all the latest knowledge and theories, spoke four languages, and was working on learning a fifth. Mycroft was brilliant. The Queen relied on him and the two of them were thick as thieves with their schemes for the country which included everything from taxes and farm production, to outfitting the army and programs to feed the poor. Mycroft solved eight different problems before breakfast most days, and twenty-odd more by the evening meal. He was carefully building a web of spies across the Continent and kept meticulous records which he thought may prove useful in the distant future. He was an intimidating Beta, a force unto himself, and most people knew to bend to Mycroft’s will because if they didn’t, he would make them.

But Mycroft wasn’t a Beta. He was a born and bred Royal Omega and while he’d obviously been kept nowhere near as isolated Sherlock…there was an innocence about him which was impossible to ignore.

Mycroft was clever, so godsdamn smart that Greg struggled to keep up with his leaps of logic on a good day, but that didn’t necessarily translate into an understanding about sexual matters. The way he’d responded to Greg rather confirmed that the Queen had tried to keep Mycroft just as ignorant about those sorts of things as Sherlock, because Mycroft didn’t seem to know much of anything beyond the basics.

Stammering and blushing, Mycroft had obviously expected them to get naked as quickly as possible and immediately fuck like they would during a heat. He’d watched Greg slowly removing his clothes with wide eyes, bewildered, then gasped and sighed and trembled every time Greg touched him. Greg wasn’t above admitting that he’d liked pleasing Mycroft. A lot. He’d tried to touch him as much as possible because it was clear Mycroft was touch-starved and Greg wanted to do everything in his power to make Mycroft feel good.

He’d been gentle, keeping everything light and teasing, the possessive Alpha part of him purring with satisfaction at the way Mycroft reacted, and it’d been going so well…but when Mycroft reached for him, needing him, Greg was overcome. He’d still been in control. Sort of. And he’d done his best, wanting to bring Mycroft to the best orgasm of his whole damn life, but hearing Mycroft say those things, in his posh voice, looking so surprised and pleasured-

_“You feel so good, Gregory…”_

_“Didn’t know it could ever feel so good…that you’d make me feel like this…”_

_“…please f-fuck me…I…you’re going to make me…orgasm-“_

Gods above.

The memory alone was enough to make Greg’s cock stir with interest even though he was embarrassed at how quickly he’d came, leaving Mycroft unsatisfied, hard and writhing. In the future, he had to have more control than that…but what happened after rather confirmed what he already thought. Mycroft genuinely hadn’t expected Greg to make him come, acting as if once the Alpha came, everything was over- like it would be during a heat. Mycroft hadn’t tried to touch his own cock either, instead grabbing at Greg and pulling him closer…which while nice (really fucking nice actually, Greg added, even if his back was still throbbing from being scratched) was more acceptable behavior for sex during a heat since it was pointless for an Omega to touch themselves then- only an Alpha’s knot could give them relief. Greg had loved bringing Mycroft off with his mouth, but even Mycroft’s response to _that_ proved an outrageous lack of information…

Next time, he would do better, Greg firmly resolved. Next time, he would stay in control the whole time. Go slowly. Make Mycroft _scream_ with pleasure.

Please, gods, let there be a next time, Greg prayed, watching the pair across the room. Lennox tipped his head closer to Mycroft- too close- and whispered in his ear, and Greg could only watch with impotent rage as Lennox touched what wasn’t his, holding Mycroft’s arm as he spoke as if he had every right to do so. Greg wanted to rip the interloping Alpha away from Mycroft. Punch him in his annoying face. Keep him from ever touching Mycroft again.

Mycroft was his.

His. His. His.

But he wasn’t.

“Fuck.” Greg forced himself to look away, turning away from the ballroom and staring out into the darkened garden. Why the fuck was he doing this to himself? He should’ve left when Mycroft told him to. He should be down at the barracks enjoying the celebrations instead of here, torturing himself like a lovesick fool.

Mycroft wasn’t his. Greg reminded himself of that, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath of cool night air. He needed to remember exactly what this was and not make it into something it wasn’t.

_“I would speak to you after the ceremony about my…proposition.”_

_“I do not expect, or demand, your affection, Captain…I don’t mean to insult you, only to let you know that I anticipate nothing further from you than physical gratification…Our arrangement need only be mutually satisfactory, without emotional strings attached, as it were…”_

Mycroft was young. It was only natural that he wanted sex, and craved the press of skin against skin. Any young man Mycroft’s age would be the same and Greg was more than fucking eager to fulfill all of Mycroft’s desires …but Greg couldn’t let himself forget the reason _why_ Mycroft had turned to him: there was literally no one else available with whom Mycroft could sexually experiment.

No one else knew Mycroft was an Omega- except Greg- and Mycroft couldn’t be intimate with someone without revealing he was an Omega. That would send his carefully laid plans crashing down on all of them with disastrous consequences. Greg was the only person Mycroft could turn to if he wanted sex, Greg was available and willing, and Mycroft had made it obvious (albeit awkwardly while he blushed) that he wanted a physical arrangement between them with no strings attached…

“Godsdammit.” Greg exhaled roughly, running a hand through his hair, staring out into the darkness and wishing once again he was at the barracks, drinking, instead of here. Anywhere but here.

He needed to stop the stupid fantasies he had about Mycroft.

It didn’t matter if he and Mycroft were having an affair. It didn’t matter that Mycroft had reached for Greg in the conservatory with passionate enthusiasm. It didn’t matter that Mycroft had kissed Greg so sweetly in his bedroom, unsure and aroused. It didn’t matter that Mycroft had curled up beside Greg after they’d had sex and all it’d taken was Greg opening his arms for Mycroft to shyly shuffle his way into them before dropping off to sleep with his head on Greg’s shoulder and a pleased little smile on his face that had almost broken Greg’s heart. He’d stayed awake for the longest time, staring at the Omega and wondering what the hell he was doing…and wondering how much it would hurt when it was over.

Because it would end. Eventually. Their arrangement was only just begun, but Greg could already see an end date. It was how things had to be because Mycroft could never truly be his and it was laughable for Greg to even think he had a chance. Mycroft was a Prince of Northumbria, rich and privileged and titled and clever and Greg was…just Greg. Nobody. He didn’t delude himself that Mycroft Holmes could fall in love with him.

Greg’s insides withered in humiliation that he’d even briefly considered it a possibility.

Mycroft’s disinterest and cold detachment over the last year was proof enough of his apathy. If Greg looked further back, during the years before he’d helped Mycroft through his heat, Mycroft had always been acerbic and scathing, aloof, sarcastic when peeved, never affable or friendly-

And why the hell would he have been, Greg argued with himself. A Prince wasn’t _friends_ with their Captain. Yes, he’d seen another side of Mycroft during their stay at the Queen’s Head. He’d gotten to glimpse it again today in the conservatory, and later in Mycroft’s bedroom. Greg knew Mycroft was capable of softer emotions…but that didn’t mean…

Sighing, Greg reluctantly turned back to the ballroom, eyes scanning the crowd before finding Mycroft and Lennox again. Mycroft had enjoyed having sex with him, the physicality of their encounter, and being kissed and touched and pleasured which was something he’d never had before. Greg could give him that. He wanted to give Mycroft that. He’d given Mycroft everything else. How was this any different?

But he needed to remember what it was…and what it would never be.

Whatever else Greg may want, it wasn’t possible, and he needed to accept that.

* * *

 

“I shall win you eventually, dear heart. Make no mistake. I can be very… _persuasive_.” Lennox was so close that Mycroft could feel his lips brushing against his ear and before he could jerk away, Lennox made so bold as to flick his tongue along the shell of Mycroft’s ear-

Mycroft startled, gasping in shock, and would have moved away…except for Lennox’s grip on his wrist, keeping him at his side.

“Let me go.” Mycroft’s voice was too high, quavering with distress. He struggled to control himself, not wanting Lennox to know how upset he was, and resisting the urge to wipe at his ear. He could feel the wetness drying in the heat of the room. For a few seconds he thought he’d throw up, right in the middle of the ballroom. “Let. Me. Go.”

“Forgive me, dear heart. I overstepped myself, but I could not resist a taste of your sweetness-”

“ _Stop calling me that_. I am not your dear heart-“

“What shall I call you then? Precious? Love? Tell me, Mycroft, and I will obey.” He winked. “Sweetheart?”

“Your Highness will suffice.” Mycroft said coolly, taking a step backward, but Lennox followed, undeterred.

“No, I think not. That’s much too impersonal. If you don’t like dear heart, I’ll think of something else, something better, because you deserve the best. You’re a priceless gem in this Court, Mycroft, and I would have you know that this isn’t a lark for me. I’ll make certain you’re satisfied, and if this is your lovely reaction to such a simple caress, I cannot wait to see how you respond when I finally have you.”

“You will never have me.” He snapped, glaring at Lennox and twisting to get away, stares and whispers be damned. “Ever. You are disgusting and I want nothing more to do with you-“

“You say that now,” Lennox dismissed Mycroft’s angry speech. “But only because you have no idea what delights await you-“

“There are no _delights_ awaiting me. My mother was entirely wrong in allowing your association with me. She will be apprised of the reasons why in the morning.” It made Mycroft feel small to threaten Lennox with his mother, as if he couldn’t handle the situation himself…but he couldn’t.

“Ah, Mycroft-“

“Let go of me.”

Lennox sighed mockingly, grinning in the face of Mycroft’s threat. “If that is your wish, my treasure. But if this is the last time I will be near you, please allow me to bid you a proper farewell.”

“No. Just let-“

Not waiting for permission, Lennox tugged at Mycroft’s wrist, bringing it up to his face, and Mycroft resisted, locking the muscles in his arm but Lennox was strong. Mycroft’s resistance was frighteningly ineffective. Lennox’s eyes glittered as if he knew the direction of Mycroft’s thoughts and his grip tightened until it was painful. Mycroft fought the urge to flinch. He knew he’d have bruises the next day.

Inexplicably he remembered the way Gregory had held his hands to the bed, their fingers threaded together, firm but not hurting. Still gentle even while he took him.

Lennox kissed the back of Mycroft’s hand as he’d done earlier that evening when they were first introduced, then turned his hand over. Before Mycroft could react, he licked his palm, a wet flick against Mycroft’s skin, lightening fast-

“ _No_!” Mycroft pulled away and Lennox let him go, smiling at having elicited such a reaction. And he had. Oh, how he had. Mycroft’s pulse raced and he was overwhelmed with what he knew was misplaced shame. He had no reason to be ashamed, but he was mortified over what had just been done to him, the degradation Lennox had perpetrated. Marking him. As if he had a right. The wet spot on his skin burned. Mycroft struggled for air in the hot room, his thought in chaos. No one had ever…no one had ever dared…

“ _Gorgeous_.” Lennox rolled his tongue around his mouth as if savoring the taste of Mycroft’s skin, voice husky, tinged with aroused. Mycroft wanted to gag. “Do not be alarmed at what you are feeling, my treasure. It’s only natural to be so effected by an Alpha, and please know that to see you thus does not repulse me.”

Mycroft floundered for something to say. He wanted to debase Lennox with words that would cut and sting, threats that would reduce the cocky Alpha to a miserable disgrace. Mycroft was adept at doing that…but nothing came to mind. Mycroft’s mind was jammed like a rusty lock. He was having trouble processing.

Lennox’s eyes darkened, and he took a step forward, reaching for Mycroft again-

“Your Highness?”

Mycroft’s knees went weak at the familiar voice. He turned around, gasping in relief before he could stop himself. “Captain.”

And, yes. There he was, like something from a dream. Captain Lestrade stood a respectful distance away but still close enough that Mycroft immediately felt soothed by his presence. Gregory’s hands were clasped behind his back, his stance at attention, apparently calm. A good and proper Captain of the Guard.

His eyes were murderous.

“Are you alright, Your Highness?”

No. He wasn’t alright. Mycroft felt as if he would never be alright again. He nodded jerkily. “Yes. Yes, I’m alright.”

Gregory didn’t openly contradict him. “Your brother wishes to speak to you and I’ve been sent to take you to him.”

“Yes. Th-thank you, Captain.” Mycroft glanced at Lennox but the Alpha was glaring at Captain Lestrade, openly disdainful.

“Good evening.” Mycroft muttered, ingrained protocol forcing him to say some type of parting, then left without a backward glance. Captain Lestrade trailed after him as he made his way through the ballroom and slipped out the door without anyone noticing. Once he gained the hallway, Mycroft kept walking, his legs shaking and threatening to give out from beneath him. He didn’t know where he was going, blindly turning corners and hurrying down corridors, with Captain Lestrade following silently behind. Mycroft felt like a scared bird in flight, heart pounding, and the metaphor, the reminder of his vulnerability, made him feel worse. Lennox had…and Mycroft couldn’t…he’d been unable to…

Mycroft jerked open a door at random, making sure it was empty before rushing inside. The small day-parlor, fitted out with elegant furnishing all gilded in gold, was dark, the fireplace cold, and none of the candles were lit. There was a row of large windows opposite the door and silver moonlight filtered through the glass, giving just enough illumination to see.

Mycroft moved further into the room, his boots muted on the carpet. He didn’t know what he intended to do- perhaps sink onto the sofa like a swooning Omega, his mind supplied somewhat hysterically- but when he heard Gregory enter, shutting and locking the door, he spun around.

“Where were you?” He distantly realized he was overreacting, being unforgivably unfair. He’d been the one who _told_ Gregory he was allowed to leave. The horrible, clawing panic in his chest wouldn’t allow Mycroft to be rational, though. His palm still felt wet. He wiped it on his trousers. “I needed you tonight and you weren’t there and-…Where did you go?”

“I never left, Your Highness.” Gregory said evenly, keeping a safe distance between them, not leaving his place at the door.

Mycroft scoffed. It sounded mean even to his own ears. “You did? Well, I didn’t see you.”

“You wouldn’t have. I meant it that way. I was on the veranda, near the doors to the garden, in the shadows where I couldn’t be seen-”

“I believe I would have seen you at some point in the evening if that were true.”

“I doubt it since I was hidden. I hate that you didn’t notice me, but I promise you, Mycroft, I was there.”

Mycroft snorted, shaking his head, letting his expression speak for itself.

“I am not lying.” Gregory snapped, and he was beginning to sound angry. For some reason, Mycroft realized that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to have a row because all the emotions clamoring inside him were aching to be released. He’d never felt this out of control in his life. It scared him. He was out of his depth and sinking fast.

“If you _aren’t_ lying,” He infused as much skepticism as he could into his voice and Gregory’s expression darkened. A thrill went up Mycroft’s spine. “Then why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

“I didn’t know if you required my help or not.” Gregory said slowly, baring his teeth when Mycroft snorted again. “Forgive me, Your Highness, for not storming into the ballroom, in the middle of the dance with the entire Court and your mother present, to defend you from an arsehole Alpha she had wanted to see you with and with whom you’d spent all evening who was only talking with you-“

“Now I know you’re lying, if _that’s_ what you think he was doing.” Mycroft smirked, fiercely vindicated and he didn’t even know why. “I don’t care where you were or what you were doing, Captain, but there’s no reason to lie-“

“I am not fucking lying, Mycroft-“

“ _Then why didn’t you come sooner?_ ” Mycroft cried out, hating himself while he upbraided his Captain but helpless to stop. He hated this. He hated feeling this way. He didn't know what to do. “If you’d _really_ been there you would have come sooner because you…you would have seen…you would have seen him...”

“What would I have seen?”

“You know what he did!” Mycroft snapped. “He li-” His throat closed up. He was too ashamed to say it. He couldn’t tell Gregory that Lennox had licked him. He just _couldn’t._

And Mycroft realized that he didn’t even know what the hell they were fighting about. Whether or not Gregory had stayed? Where Gregory had been after Mycroft told him he could leave? It didn’t matter. Gregory had been there, rescued Mycroft from Lennox, and he was still here now. Mycroft was angry…but he wasn’t angry at Gregory. He was taking it out on his Captain who didn’t deserve his mockery or scorn.

“I apologize, Gregory.” Mycroft’s chin wobbled and he crossed his arms tightly, holding onto the last remaining thread of his control with grim determination. “I was b-being unfair to you. It doesn’t m-matter…but I believe you…if you say- say you were there.” Mycroft took a deep breath, whooshing it out. “The room was crowded. You couldn’t keep an eye on me every second.”

“Mycroft? What happened?” Gregory asked and it was so gentle that Mycroft almost lost it. He hugged himself tighter, squeezing the breath from his lungs. “What did he do, sweetheart?” “

He…” Mycroft tried again, but no words would come. He shook his head, face twisting as he fought furious tears. He could still feel the way Lennox had licked his ear, breath hot and damp. He shuddered. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. He had withstood insinuations and vulgarities of all sorts, but never had someone been so bold as to _touch_ him, because Gregory had always been there, no one had ever…

“Sweetheart?” Gregory slowly made his way to Mycroft, concerned, brow furrowed. “Are you alright?”

Mycroft nodded, head bobbing at the end of his neck erratically. Gregory didn’t look convinced.

All it took was him holding out an arm and Mycroft eagerly stepped into his embrace, not caring that he was acting like a irrational or that Gregory would think he was being weak. He rested his forehead against Gregory’s chest, taking a stuttering breath, and melted against the Alpha when his arms wrapped around him, Gregory’s hand coming up to cup the back of his head.

“I’m sorry.” Gregory murmured against his hair, lips ghosting against his scalp. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Mycroft murmured back, taking deep, greedy lungfuls of Gregory’s scent. “I’m sorry I was so unkind to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You’re upset.”

Mycroft didn’t respond, turning his head so he could rest his cheek against Gregory’s shoulder. Gregory’s fingers eased through his hair, rubbing small circles.

“Can you tell me why?”

No. Mycroft couldn’t tell him why. He wanted to change the subject. “Why were you hiding on the veranda?”

The Alpha tensed, fingers freezing against his scalp. “What?”

“You said earlier that you didn’t leave, and that you stayed on the veranda, hidden in the shadows. But I had already dismissed you for the evening. So why did you do that?”

“It’s not important.”

It really wasn’t important...but something in his tone put Mycroft on alert. Gregory sounded uncomfortable, almost guilty, and Mycroft bit his lip, running through the various scenarios. He finally ventured.

“Was it…did you stay for someone perhaps?” He asked, trying not to sound accusatory. Gregory had been on the veranda, in the dark, near the gardens, and Mycroft knew what everyone had been up to when they entered the gardens that evening.

And besides, Gregory was free to do as he pleased because they weren’t exclusive. They hadn’t discussed the exact nature of their affair, the terms and parameters, which had been a glaring oversight on Mycroft’s part. He would’ve selfishly insisted Gregory remain sexually faithful during the course of the affair. Greedy, but Mycroft didn’t like the idea of Gregory leaving his bed when they had just finished having sex, and falling straight into another Omega’s bed.

“Of course not.”

“Mm.” Mycroft tried to be happy with that answer, and he heard Gregory sigh.

“The reason I stayed was because I didn’t like seeing your mother give you to him for the evening. I wouldn’t have left you alone with him. I couldn’t stand seeing you with him.” He whispered, and this time it was Mycroft’s turn to freeze. “I…I couldn’t stand it, Mycroft. All I wanted to do was go back inside and…and take you from him.”

Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat. The way Gregory said it…it made it sound as if…the inherent possessiveness suggested…did Gregory mean to imply that he…that he…

“You couldn’t stand seeing me with him?” Mycroft drew away slightly out of Gregory’s embrace, searching his face for an answer.

Gregory hesitated, frowning. “No. I couldn’t.”

He should be angry at the possessiveness. No one owned him. He wasn’t Gregory’s to do with as he pleased. But Mycroft’s ears were ringing. His vision narrowed. Everything seemed to be happening at a slow speed.

“Why?” He was shaking with the need to finally hear those words from Gregory. Mycroft wanted this. He’d wanted it for years- even more than sex with Gregory- and he believed that he was about to be told- “Why could you not stand it, Gregory?”

Gregory’s frown deepened, obviously struggling with his answer, and fear cut through Mycroft’s temporary happiness. Was he wrong? Did Gregory mean something else entirely? Please, no. They’d made love this afternoon. Gregory had kissed him and called him sweetheart. He’d held Mycroft while he slept. He…

Mycroft couldn’t be wrong about this. He couldn’t.

“Gregory?” Mycroft prodded. “Why?”

Gregory sighed and dropped his arms, leaving Mycroft bereft without his warmth. Cold. He stepped back, pulling further away and clasping his hands behind his back. A Guard at attention in front of their Prince.

Mycroft knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“I couldn’t stand seeing you with him because I knew he was dangerous, and it’s my duty to protect you, Your Highness.”

Oh.

Mycroft’s entire body went numb.

Of course.

All the silly fantasies Mycroft had allowed to take shape in his mind disappeared like mist. Gone.

Stupid. Idiot.

He had thought…

_“The Captain does care for you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t serve you. I wouldn’t risk my life for you. I wouldn’t put up with your godsdamn snotty attitude…”_

_“Gods, I want you…”_

_“You’re so gorgeous like this...so fucking gorgeous, Mycroft...you feel so good, sweetheart-”_

_“Are you alright? Sweetheart? Are you alright?”_

It had just been fucking. That’s all it had been. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Because…because…

_“He is paid to care for you, Mycroft.”_

_“What you feel for him will never matter to him…”_

_“You asked him to do that and of course he would oblige.”_

Mycroft had allowed himself to believe, despite his best attempts, somewhere in his heart he’d honestly thought…

_“It’s my duty to protect you.”_

He’d never felt like a bigger fool. And it was all his fault because Gregory hadn’t deceived him. Mycroft had known what it was Gregory wanted before they had sex and Mycroft had thought he was fine with that. But he realized that he wasn’t sophisticated enough for an affair, and for all the emotions attached to the act, and how to separate them one from the other. He swallowed thickly, grateful for the darkness of the room and that his back was to the windows so Gregory couldn’t see him properly. He was done for the night, crushed by the Alpha he’d ran from and then crushed by the Alpha he’d ran towards.

“Thank you for your service this evening, Captain.” He managed to say as courteously as possible. “It was admirably dispatched.” His voice sounded hollow and cold even to his own ears. “I am grateful for your dedication and…unswerving loyalty.”

Gregory stayed silent, looking at the carpet. Mycroft thought that was just as well. There was nothing else to say.

“I’m very tired, Captain. I…believe I shall retire for the evening. I do, however, expect to see you in the morning for the finishing touches to the tour schedule. There are some last minute changes with Prince’s John’s entourage we’ve not taken into account.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, realized he didn’t know what to say, and closed it again. He forced himself to walk, brushing past Gregory and walking out of the room in a daze, unable to feel his legs as he stiffly made his way down the corridor. He was hardly aware of which direction he was going in and his thoughts were jumbled and noisy and he didn’t actually have any coherent thoughts, for which he was rather grateful. He was heartily sick of Alphas for the evening.

Mycroft had turned the corner to go to his wing of the palace- when he heard Sherlock’s high laughter echoing against the stones.

Mycroft stopped. Tilted his head to listen…

There it was again, but this time accompanied by another voice…

Mycroft snuck down the corridor, walking on the toes of his boots to make less noise, and the laughter and conversation got louder and louder. Keeping close to the wall, he peeked around the corner- Sherlock and John sat on the stone floor further down the hall, an impromptu picnic spread out between them- cheese and grapes and biscuits, cold ham and bread and lumps of butter and a small jug of milk. Sherlock was sitting in front of John, cross-legged, talking animatedly and waving his hands in the air while he told his story. John slumped against the wall, his longer legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, and a small smile played around his lips as he watched Sherlock talk. He was putting pieces of ham and cheese between slices of bread, spreading a layer of butter over it with a knife and Mycroft watched as John handed the food to Sherlock who took it without seeming to even notice and without breaking his story, using the food to gesture with for emphasis before taking a bite.

Mycroft watched them from the shadows for quite a while, the tight sadness in his chest lessening the more he watched the easy, happy way his little brother acted around John, obviously pleased with John’s quiet but attentive audience. John laughed at something Sherlock had said, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, giving himself over entirely to the humor, looking so relaxed and at ease and young in a way Mycroft hadn’t seen him. He didn’t think he’d actually ever seen the Alpha relaxed, come to think of it. John continued to giggle, high-pitched, grinning at Sherlock who gave him a shy smile in return, clearly enjoying the attention. He blushed when John said something back at him- then launched straight into another story.

Mycroft’s heart clenched, more painful than anything else he’d felt that evening, and he massaged his chest as he turned away, ready for the comfort of his bed.

By the time Mycroft made the weary trek back to his and Sherlock’s wing, dragging his feet, he was profoundly tired. The day had been the longest day he could remember-

And it wasn’t over yet because when he opened the door to his bedroom, a cool breeze caressed his face, the curtains billowing gentle in the late night breeze, and his room was softly lit by firelight, and…and his bed was newly made with crisp white sheets, turned back invitingly.

Mycroft’s stomach dropped all the way through the floor. He suddenly thought of Gregory pulling out of him and spending on the sheets between his legs, leaving a telling stain.

Oh. Oh, gods-

“I wondered when you would be back.”

Mycroft jumped, heart racing, spinning around, prepared for the worst-

Mrs. Hudson gave him a smile as she emerged from behind the screen where he dressed of a morning, folding a shirt and acting as if she did this sort of thing all the time. She didn’t. The only time she helped Mycroft was during his heats. “I’m your brother’s nanny, not your housekeeper” was the oft heard refrain.

They regarded each other from across the room. Mycroft felt sick. What if she told his mother? What if she already had done? What if she-

“Who is it?”

Mycroft didn’t even try and pretend that he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Captain Lestrade.” He whispered, mouth dry from fear. If the information surprised her, Mrs. Hudson didn’t let it show. She nodded as if that was what she’d suspected, finished folding the shirt, and laid it aside before giving Mycroft a stern look.

“It’s not my place to lecture you. I’m not your mother-“

Mycroft stepped forward, afraid. “Mrs. Hudson…please-“

“I haven’t told a soul, Mycroft…and I won’t.” She pursed her lips. “I’m not your mother, and I think it would be for the best if she didn’t find out what’s going on. Don’t you?”

Mycroft nodded hesitantly. Did she want money? He could buy her silence for a while, until he moved Gregory away from Northumbria to spare him the Queen’s wrath-

“Are you taking the necessary precautions?”

Mycroft blinked, not understanding, but hen it hit him what she meant, he blushed so hard he was afraid he would get a nosebleed. _“Mrs. Hudson!”_

“Oh, there’s no reason to be embarrassed, dear. I’ve enjoyed an affair or two in my day.” She said cheekily, grinning. Mycroft wished she would stop talking. Please, gods, let her stop talking. “But I was from the city and knew the ways of things. Well, you’re taught from a young age. Realists, that’s what you have to be, raised as poor as I was. Your mother wants to keep you and your brother ignorant about a lot of things…and she’s done the two of you no favors.”

A horrible thought occurred. “Have you given this lecture to Sherlock?” Not that Mycroft was averse to Sherlock having the appropriate knowledge about things, but he was only 11. He didn’t like the idea of Sherlock knowing…the more intimate details of things. Not yet.

“No, of course not. But I will one day.” She said, unashamed. “Before he marries that Alpha Prince. And I’m giving the lecture to you now so that later you can give me critiques and tell me where I’ve gone wrong with my delivery. That’ll be lovely. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?” She offered. Mycroft pressed his lips together, wondering if she were making fun of him.

“Do you plan to see him again?”

Mycroft nodded.

“When I ask that you do know that I’m speaking euphemistically?”

“Yes.” Mycroft blushed.

“And so you plan-“

_“Yes.”_

“Alright” Mrs. Hudson reached into the pocket of her dress and removed a sachet. “There are some precautions to take to prevent unwanted pregnancies. Every morning, put this in your tea as it brews, allow it to steep for five minutes, then drink it all down to the dregs. Just once a day, mind. Otherwise you’ll end up poisoning yourself. Of course, extra precautions are never a bad idea. If that Captain of yours wants to continue spending on the sheets, I wouldn’t discourage him, but if he does, that will be up to you to clean from now on. I’m Sherlock’s nanny, not your house keeper. I only did this time because I was worried you’d forget and get caught. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Mycroft was loathe to admit it, but she _was_ right. He nodded again, and she seemed pleased.

“So you’ll have to remember to clean up any messes that may get left behind.” She raised her eyebrows significantly and Mycroft closed his eyes in an attempt to divorce himself from the situation. “But sometimes Alphas refuse to do that sort of thing- and even the best of them make mistakes. They get carried away, lost in the moment…”

“Mrs. Hudson…” Mycroft wanted to die.

“I swear. It’s as if you weren’t doing what I know you were doing just this afternoon.” She shook her head, giving Mycroft a rueful smile. “There's no reason to be embarrassed, dear. It's all natural. I just want you to know, and have the information you need. It can be fun, so long as it's done properly. Which is why it’s best to be vigilant with your tea. You don’t want to get caught so my best advice is to always make sure you bathe afterwards, to remove his scent, and do not let him mark you, Mycroft, in any way. Do not keep anything of his in your rooms- or on your person...”

Mycroft nodded along as she dispensed her advice, hoping it would be over soon as he could be alone and forget the entire conversation had ever happened. His insides curled at the idea of Mrs. Hudson finding Gregory’s semen smeared across the sheets and knowing what had taken place-

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, ma’am. Apologies. I…”

“Quite alright, dear. You’ve had a long day. I’ll leave you to bed. Remember.” She touched the sachet meaningfully, then turned to leave. “Do you have any questions?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well. Perhaps…Do you need any…” Mrs. Hudson gestured vaguely with her hands. “Advice?”

Mycroft mutely shook his head, relieved it was finally over.

“Very well. You know where to find me if you do. By the way, do you know where Sherlock is? If you’ve returned I’m surprised he hasn’t.”

“He’s…enjoying himself downstairs. Give him another hour and then, if he hasn’t returned, please go down and fetch him. It’s late and he needs to be in bed.”

“Alright.”

“Look in the corridors around the ballroom.”

If she thought this was odd advice, Mrs. Hudson didn’t show it. Mycroft was sure she’d done odder things in the years she’d been his little brother’s nanny than find him in hallways. She dropped Mycroft a curtsey, and with a murmured “Goodnight, dear” slipped through the door and down the private hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom.

Mycroft dithered, torn. He didn’t want to. He didn’t-

Godsdammit.

Before he changed his mind, he hurried across the room and opened the door. “Mrs. Hudson?”

She turned, halfway down the hall, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Thank you. Very much."

She gave him a soft, affectionate smile that he warmed under, even while he tried not to. “You’re very welcome, dear. You know where to find me.” She said again, and Mycroft nodded, closing the door with a deep sigh.

He took his time undressing, peeling himself out of his clothes and touching his skin, and when he crawled beneath his clean sheets, smelling the fresh night air the coolness of which made his lungs hurt, he resolutely shut his eyes and determined not to think about anything that had happened.

He was not successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This isn't the end of the series. There will be other installments and please remember I always write happy endings.
> 
> 2\. I wrote Mycroft's reaction to his harassment based on an incident that happened to me when I was a teenager. I worked at a flea market on the weekends and one day an old man came into our booth, bought a few items, and then said he needed help to his car. I was more than happy to volunteer, and he looped his arm through mine- then used his elbow to violently jiggle my breast, cackling the entire time. I pulled away, upset, and he said that had "been nice" and walked away perfectly fine. I cried all the way home. At that time, nothing like that had ever happened to me and it was traumatizing. 
> 
> 3\. I modeled the way Omegas are treated when it comes to sex from how women were treated during medieval times- late 1800s. Most of my ideas came from a book _"Sex with Kings"_ by Eleanor Herman which details (big surprise) the sex lives of monarchs and the generally terrible way their wives were treated. There are plenty examples of women entering into marriage and not having a clue what would be taking place on the wedding night, which led to all sorts of problems later on.


End file.
